


Heaven Disturbed

by baiservole



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 18:18:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baiservole/pseuds/baiservole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"By proof we feel our power sufficient to disturb his Heav'n". A doubting priest, a saviour without faith and a cursed town with no memories. Welcome to Storybrooke, which is about to wake up. AU/OOC (at first). Rated M for future chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Prologue**

_O send out your light and your truth; let them lead me; let them bring me to your holy hill and to your dwelling._

(Psalm 43.3)

The sun was setting just as he entered the forest near his little church. Clutching a wooden rosary in his only good hand and wearing just a light black jacket he traversed the only clear path between the trees – deep, deep into his own enchanted forest. He liked to think of it as leaving one sanctuary for another – surely he, God's lowly servant, could find him anywhere he wished.

It was his little reprieve, his cherished time alone – everybody in this town knew not to trouble their charming, but often melancholy priest, after the evening mass. Most considered it quite understandable, really – wouldn't God's own servant need his personal time with his Master? Others grumbled that the only local priest should be available at any time of day, but Killian was firm. If he was going to spend the rest of his days listening to (seemingly) inconsequential troubles of local parishioners, they could at least give him this. A breather. A time to be true to himself.

The air seemed different today – somehow the winds from the harbour had brought with them a strange smell of sea salt (that deep into the trees? Surely not). Or was it his overactive imagination? Killian shook his head, trying to banish those thoughts from his head and instead focused on his prayers. It wasn't the only reason he came here, of course, but the woods seemed to calm him on most days – but today he sensed something different. Agitation was creeping in. He concentrated harder.

_"Hail Mary,_

_Full of Grace,_

_The Lord is with thee._

_Blessed art thou among women…"_

Quickly, as if afraid of other unbidden thoughts entering his mind, Killian recited the rest of the Hail Mary,only to notice that it was getting increasingly colder. If it was going to rain, he welcomed the possibility. Nothing like getting caught in a sudden downpour – feeling all of your sins and unsavoury thoughts gathered throughout the day being washed away with heaven's own water. It made him feel pure, if only for a little while.

And then the 'doubt-hour',as Killian called it (to himself, of course), and an endless amount of possibilities of another life ran freely through his tired mind. He gave up fighting the 'doubt-hour' a long time ago, justifying it (again, only to himself) by countless explanations. If he didn't have it now, it would return full force in another moment, but here he could control the extent to which it grew. After it was finished, he could go on with his life again, a perfect example of a faithful man of God. No one would suspect a thing, except, of course, for God himself. Killian battled with himself every day on this 'doubt-hour' and came to a conclusion that it was his cross to bear. If only it made his beliefs stronger.

And there was another particular aspect of this ordeal that confused and even frightened him at times – anger. Killian felt anger flow through his veins, poison his blood and wreak havoc in his brain. He couldn't fathom where the anger came from – as if there was another person hiding underneath all that he knew, all that he was. He was terrified of digging deeper – the things he would find might just be the tipping point and become his ruin. Best not dwell on that particular thought, decided the priest, and he continued to move at a brisk pace through the forest.

He was nearing the town's boundaries, he was certain of it. He always came this far – probably for that fleeting feeling of being almost on the edge of something, teasing himself with a possibility of leaving this dreamy, sleepy and slightly unreal place. He could have another life. He could be anything. He could take up sailing, for example, like he always wanted. Something called him to the sea – God help him, if only he knew why.

Killian promptly chastised himself for these thoughts, for there were so many people in the world with fates worse than his, so he couldn't complain, not about this. "Humble thyself," he repeated sternly.

Stepping on a path leading to the highway, he was on his second rosary when he began to feel the first heavy drops of rain. A few seconds later it was pouring heavily and he finally smiled, relishing the sensation of being almost cured and protected with it at the same time.

He was nearing the road leading out of Storybrooke when he saw the bright headlights of a small yellow car speeding out of town. The car's driver, it seemed, was very much intent on leaving this place as soon as possible, judging by its speed. But before Killian could register his surprise at seeing a newcomer's car leaving the town  _at all_  (strangers, as he well knew, never came to this town), he heard its tires screeching loudly as the car swiveled on the road and the driver apparently slammed on the brakes too hard, trying to stop the car for an unknown reason. He couldn't move – it was happening way to fast – and the next second the yellow Bug hit the 'Leaving Storybrooke' sign full-force with its driver's side. The passenger's door flew open and swayed a few times. Then everything stilled. No movement.

Killian finally came out of his stupor and ran to the road almost slipping on the grass in the process. He cautiously approached the car and peered inside through the open passenger's door.

He wasn't prepared for the sight that greeted him. A shock of blond curls sprawled on the steering wheel, a pale face, eyes closed with an almost serene expression on it. She (for it was definitely a 'she') was unmoving but, Killian hoped, still breathing and his heart lurched at the possibility of the girl being… dead. Still. Silenced for eternity.

That thought finally brought him to action – he ran to the driver's side of the car, opened the door and started to gently drag her unconscious body out of the Bug. Laying her on the grass, he knelt beside her and hurriedly took her right hand to check the pulse. He cried out with relief when he felt the steady rhythm of blood pumping through her veins underneath the pale skin. Killian then started to check her face and body for signs of damage, but besides a cut on her brow he found nothing. He took a shuddering breath and tried to steady his trembling hands. He muttered a quick prayer of thanks and it was the most heartfelt one he said in weeks or months, even. He thanked God again and again that she was alive. He couldn't ask for anything else.

But now he was drenched and now her form was drenched too and he just sat there under the pouring rain, like a child, without any ideas as to what to do with her. He then remembered that (thankfully) he had the presence of mind to bring his cell phone with him on this particular walk. He dug it out of his right pocket and started dialing the Sheriff's number.

He would take the woman to the hospital and Killian will probably never see her again, seeing that she was so intent on leaving. Perhaps, that was for the best. Her presence was so unsettling; he couldn't break out of this peculiar trance. He couldn't stop looking at her face.

How was she even real? Why was she here, of all places?

 _"Strangers never come to Storybrooke,"_  he repeated, whispering the mantra from long ago.


	2. Dei Gratia

**Dei Gratia**

_"The mystery of human existence lies not in just staying alive, but in finding something to live for."_

(The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky)

**Killian:**

He woke up with a jolt the next morning. At first he couldn't remember a thing – yesterday seemed indistinguishable from any other day, until it all came back to him in a flash, the fog covering his memories giving way to a steady stream of pictures, noises, smells,  _feelings_.

She happened – she was out there, somewhere, here, in Storybrooke, at least for now. He'd seen a new face in what seems like forever and it was seared into his eyelids – a pale vision with golden tresses that promised so much. The pain of knowing that nothing would ever happen (she would leave, she  _had_  to leave, after all) was exquisite. Feeling something new made his heart stumble for a mere nanosecond – and yet the feeling was  _achingly familiar._

Killian let himself enjoy his brief but welcome agony for a few minutes, until it was time to get up, face God, and face the day and the people he was in charge of for so long.

Finally, he rose from his bed, still a bit unsteady and knelt beside it, facing a large cross hanging on the opposite wall. Prayers flew from his lips in a thankful murmur and he prayed and prayed until his knees grew numb and he remembered that the world outside was going on without him. For once Killian wanted to catch up with it.

* * *

"Father Jones!" a thin voice carried through the expanse of the church, "Father Jones, are you here?"

A small smile slowly crept on Killian's face – Henry, the mayor's son. Whenever the boy came to visit his 'humble' abode, the priest considered the day quite successful – his visits always brought him peace and were at least some sort of entertainment.

But there was something different about Henry, too. Other kids – they didn't really care. Sure, they were dutiful and prayed when they were told to and helped around the church. Henry wasn't a religious fanatic – far from that – but Killian recognized a believer when he saw one. Not just an ordinary believer, though – the lad's face shone with passion these days.

Henry had told Killian about his fairytale book but he didn't disclose the priest's true 'identity', as much as the latter hadgood-naturedly pestered him about it. Henry was quite firm on the subject, sternly telling the priest that, "He simply wasn't ready." Killian smiled again, inwardly. Someday, he would know.

"I'm here, Henry!" Killian called from the sacristy. He heard the boy's footsteps hurrying towards the partially opened door.

"I came to thank you for saving my Mom's life"gasped Henry, clearly out of breath from running. His eyes shone with gratitude.

Killian stood there, speechless. The woman he found in the car yesterday was most certainly not the Mayor.

Henry, apparently sensing his confusion, hastened to explain.

"No, no… Not that Mom. My birth Mom. My real one."

"Henry, you shouldn't call – " Killian started to correct him automatically and then froze mid-sentence. "That was your… mother? But how…"

Henry eagerly interrupted him, "I found her! Yesterday, I came all the way to Boston to her flat and brought her here with me!" Killian hadn't seen the boy so happy in ages. He was about to burst from happiness and excitement. And then, just like that, it all dimmed significantly because he continued, subdued, "But she made me stay with Regina and wanted to leave and… and…" He had to stop there, clearly trying to swallow a lump in his throat. "Such a tough lad," thought Killian. The boy was on the brink of seeing all of his dreams and aspirations being ripped off from him and yet he tried to look so brave.

"But she's here for now, isn't she?" Killian probed, gently. Henry coughed, trying to hide his oncoming tears.

"She's going to leave, I know it. I just hoped… I'm sorry, Father, for troubling you, but I had to tell at least someone.  _She_  won't understand! She already hates Emma!" cried Henry, unable to control himself after all.

Emma.  _Emma, Emma, Emma._ His pale vision tinged with gold now had a nameand he let it fill his head for a few blissful moments. Soft, beguiling melodies echoed through his church – but he was the only one who heard them. Reality crashed through and scattered fragments of this beautiful music – he would have to reconstruct them later. Heaven on earth, he would spend hours creating new melodies for this name.

Henry coughed again. "I'm going to run away from all of them for a bit. I can't stay at that horrible house. And I've lost her, so there's no point, really. See you on Sunday, Father. Don't tell on me, okay?" Henry added, as if an after-thought.

"Of course, I won't, you know that," Killian replied automatically. He stood there, still in a daze, until he heard the door closing and then, shaking himself up, called, "Henry, wait!" The boy was almost near the main exit when Killian caught up with him.

"Yes, Father?"

"Maybe I should talk to her. To Emma, I mean. Explain to her, how much her staying here means to you. Where is she?"

"I really doubt it would change anything. I tried, after all! But maybe you can persuade her – you know, since you're a priest and everything… Right now she's in jail, actually."

"In  _jail_?" Killian gasped, incredulously. "How could she end up in jail after that accident?"

"I told you she hated Emma! Now she will do everything to keep her away from me!" Henry started crying again. Killian desperately tried to find a solution. Although he was a priest for quite a long time, dealing with a weeping child hadn't been his forte.

"Listen, Henry, I'll go to the Sheriff's station and explain everything to the Sheriff himself, alright? He will certainly understand," He had to somehow soothe Henry, reassure him – God knew, the lad needed it. And seeing Emma again wouldn't hurt, certainly. Henry nodded, his expression still uncertain but apparently this suggestion was enough to appease him. He murmured his goodbyes once more and was gone.

Killian almost stumbled to the nearest pew to the exit and sat down. What exactly had he just agreed to?

**Emma:**

She was furious. No, that didn't cut it – she was feeling such a multitude of emotions – worry, fury, exhaustion, apprehension – that she decided to focus only on her goal: finding Henry. She had spent the last ten years without anyone significant in her life and that boy just sauntered into it only yesterday like he belonged in it ("and quite unapologetically, by the by," added Emma to herself) and ruined everything. Everything! How was she supposed to go to her lonely, cold flat after meeting this wonderful boy? But he had a mother. He had a life. Why would he go searching for her when he had everything?

Of course, it was a stupid question to ask. She, of all people, should have understood him but instead brushed him off and brought him back. But she did the right thing. He didn't really need her. He was better off without a mother who gave him up. She knew her reasons and she didn't regret them for the most part, but the last 24 hours proved to be difficult in that regard.

She  _would_  be bad for him, she knew that. So she could stop fussing and worrying and just bring the kid back to his rightful mother.

At the thought of  _Madam_  Mayor, Emma had the simply irresistible urge to spit in the nearest garbage can or punch something. Hard. That woman grated on her nerves. Ms. Mills should be mighty grateful that Emma had the decency to bring her son back home – she spent time on it (and on her own birthday, too!), she had a car accident because of it and was even put behind bars for that! Something was seriously fucked up with this town and Emma firmly decided not to have anything to do with it. Henry can handle himself. He's a big kid. He somehow managed to find her, he could definitely survive here. He's the Mayor's kid, for God's sake! Talk about getting lucky.

"Get your shit together," she ordered herself and marched on.

She just met Henry's teacher, Mary Margaret Blanchard (and what a very fitting name it was) and the kind woman, who, unbeknownst to her, started this whole mess with that blasted book of hers, suggested Emma asked a certain priest about the boy's whereabouts ("A priest? Why on earth would a priest know… Oh, never mind") and that's why she was now headed to Granny's diner – apparently this particular priest was fond of eating out. Emma cracked her knuckles. This is going to be very, very entertaining indeed.

She strode up to the door, opened it and went in as confidently as possible as if she owned the place – "Let these people know who they're dealing with." She wasn't going to handle any more crap today. No. This is going to end – now. She only had to find that elusive priest and make him tell her where her so –Henry, she mentally corrected herself, was hiding.

Emma meticulously checked every booth from her strategic position near the door and almost started groaning to herself – they were all empty – until she set her eyes on the last one. It was most definitely occupied. The man with short raven black hair sat with his back to her so she had no choice but to approach him. Little did she know what sight was waiting to greet her.

"Excuse me, are you – " she cautiously said round up the corner and finally looking at him in the face. At the sound of her voice the man looked up and she instantly froze. Those eyes. She had seen them before, she was sure of it. Dark and startlingly blue, you couldn't help but get a little lost in them for a minute. Emma was getting unusually flustered and was beginning to get embarrassed when he finally saved her from any humiliation that awaited her and spoke himself.

"Miss Swan, isn't it? Let me introduce myself. I'm Father Jones, the local priest," he extended his hand in greeting and she reached for it, to shake it, not really thinking and – felt something familiar. His voice – that rich, melodic voice with a slight Irish accent – it sounded familiar too. Trouble was, she had never seen this man before in her life. His face was pale, clean-shaven and quite unfair for a priest, to be quite honest. Not that she had anything against handsome priests, of course. She just pitied him for all the unwelcome female attention he was probably getting around this town.  _Oh well_ , thought Emma,  _their loss, certainly not mine._

"Mind if I sit down? I need to talk to you about something," Emma went straight to the point.

"Of course, make yourself comfortable" offered  _Father_  Jones – God, how old was he? Her age or slightly older but she couldn't bring herself to call him 'Father'.

Once she was seated, she continued with her 'attack', trying to appear as unruffled as possible.

"Father J-"

"Please, call me Killian," interrupted the priest. At her raised eyebrows he hastened to explain. "I can see it makes you quite uncomfortable to call me 'Father' and I doubt you are quite religious – if, of course, at all – so I thought I should make things easier between us from the start. First name basis and the like. If you don't mind me calling you Emma, of course," he finished with a timid smile.

"How do you know my name?" asked she, still incredulous about the whole exchange.

"Well, you see, your son came to see me this morning…" started Father Jo –  _Killian_ , mentally corrected herself Emma (this type of thing seemed to be happening a lot to her today, she noticed).

"Aha!" she gleefully exclaimed. "So you do know where he is?"

"You don't really like wasting your time, do you? Practical and straight to the point" observed he, faintly amused, instead of answering her question.

She just continued to stare at him, going for intimidation and waiting for her answer. He better be nothiding something or else.

"You're a tough nut to crack," mumbled the priestsuddenly.

"Excuse me?" Emma spluttered with indignation, taken aback with his remark.

"Oh, oh, I beg your pardon – did I just think aloud again? Happens to me sometimes," he smiled apologetically, hanging his head as if in shame. But she could see that he wasn't really ashamed – the corners of his mouth twitched as if he was suppressing a grin.

"In my line of work you have no choice but to be tough. As to the nut part, there will be no cracking, so I suggest you stop that line of thinking right there. Where is my son,  _Killian_?" demanded she. Emma felt herself getting angrier by the second – how dare he comment on her methods, her anything, how dare he not tell her where her son was – right now, immediately! And how dare he… smile like that. Priests don't smile like that, period. She sighed inwardly. Storybrooke was indeed a strange town. So far its ability to unsettle her proved to be quite remarkable.

He finally lifted his eyes to hers and apparently seeing her unyielding resolve, sighed, resigned.

"You might want to check his castle," he murmured.

"His castle?"

"It's sort of a playground on the beach. He likes to spend his time there, when he is especially sad or troubled."

"Can't you help him with that, being a priest and everything?"

"Every kid needs his or hers alone time, Emma. Religion doesn't magically cure every mood swing a child experiences in their life," he added, somber at last.

At that, Emma fell finally silent. What did she know about Henry's moods? Nothing, absolutely nothing. It proved once again that she shouldn't stay here as he wanted. She could never be his mother – in the truest sense of the word. She couldn't do it. Emma was destined to live her life alone, behind her own concrete walls and nothing else. Henry didn't deserve any of her shit.

But Killian wasn't finished with her.

"You should have seen his face this morning. Glowing. I've never seen him like that before – except, maybe, a month ago, when he brought that fairytale book with him to the church – "

"Oh God, not that book again, no – " she wearily muttered.

" – and all he could say was that his  _real_  Mom was here. Everything made sense for him at that moment, everything that happened to him had led him to you and then he broke down in tears because you were leaving," Killian sighed and shook his head.

"At least give it a try. Get to know him. You might not get another chance. I don't know why you've given him up and I'm not in any position to judge but…" he didn't finish. He really didn't have to – all those things he'd said, they cut deep through her heart. She might not get another chance but what was worse is thatHenry would be robbed of his rightful opportunity to get to know his birth mother. Every adopted kid had that right, in her opinion, and, again, she was the last person to deny him that.

He was staring at her now with those impossible eyes, full of sadness, as if he himself was one of them, the lost ones. She stared back. She couldn't look away for the life of her.

"So… will you stay? At least for a while?" he finally asked.

"I don't know," she answered, truthfully. "Something's telling me this is the craziest idea I've ever heard and at the same time I feel that I'm needed here. That I belong here, somehow. I don't know, I need to see for myself if it's true. But, God, this is absolutely crazy," she mumbled.

He chuckled at her admission then and she suddenly decided right there on the spot that she'd love to hear that sound again in the future. And a lot more than once. He was looking at her differently now, a bit playfully, head cocked to one side. She wanted to know what he was thinking. She wanted to know the intricacies of his mind – how it worked, what made him tick, how did he end up a priest? And a lot more. She'd met him mere minutes before and here she was, the tough and mighty Emma Swan, impossibly intrigued by his very person. She needed to get away and soon. She had a son to find.

She rose from the bench, suddenly, almost knocking the table. Killian stared at her in surprise. She mumbled a quick 'thank you' and promptly fled from the diner, leaving a very confused priest in her wake.

**Killian:**

The evening Mass was a disaster. He barely stumbled through the Scripture readings and was in a daze through the whole distribution of Communion. If parishioners noticed anything, they didn't comment on it after the Mass. The church was emptied almost instantly instead, and Killian found himself very much alone and free at last to go on his sacred walk. Now was the time to really think over what happened this afternoon.

Stepping into the woods, clutching his wooden rosary in his only good hand, he proceeded onto the familiar path with a brisk pace. The further into the forest, the better.

_"I believe in God,_

_the Father almighty,_

_Creator of heaven and earth,_

_and in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord…"_

When he came into the Sheriff's office this morning, Graham had very politely explained that he had to put Emma behind bars because, "Who hits the exit sign like that, really?" Clearly she was drunk, from his point of view. She was only released a half-hour ago because Henry went missing and did Father Jones know anything about that, by the way?

Killian had no other choice but to proceed to his usual destination at that time of day – Granny's diner. Hand or no hand, he wasn't going to suffer his own crooked attempts at cooking and enjoy at least one proper meal a day.

And then she appeared. Alive, bursting with barely constrained anger and electric energy, with fire in her grey eyes and she was  _there_ , near him, and he almost forgot how to breathe for a moment. He even offered her to call him by his first name (which almost nobody did). She didn't mention the accident – the Sheriff must have forgotten to tell her about those particular details and he was actually glad that she wouldn't be able to feel in his debt. It was almost like starting anew, his little secret aside. Equal footing never hurt.

He saw something in her, though, while they talked. Well, he mostly talked, desperately trying to persuade her to stay. He was arguing on Henry's behalf, mostly, but at some point it had become personal. She simply  _had_  to stay.

When he looked into her eyes at one particular moment, he glimpsed something lost, and sad, and broken, and fiercely protected by any possible means. But somehow Killian managed to see through those defenses, if only for a moment. And in that second everything changed. He felt connected to her in some mysterious way. Maybe, somehow, in her own, unconventional way, she would be able to help him. He devoted his second rosary to that particular request.  _Let her be my guide and redemption_ , he pleaded.  _And I'll be hers, too._ A sudden thought crossed his mind.

Killian was sure it was God's way of showing him that all wasn't lost. He had an ongoing battle on his hands and he just received a gift beyond his wildest fantasies.

He was just finishing his prayers when he felt a shock like an electric current go through his system. He smelled sea, blood and metal in the briefest of seconds.  _Impossible_ , he breathed. He was in the middle of nowhere, deep in the woods and a long way from any kind of water. Something was definitely changing in this town.

Little did he know that at that moment, Emma Swan had finally decided to stay.


	3. Inter Spem Et Metum

**Inter Spem Et Metum**

  
_A mind not to be changed by place or time._   
_The mind is its own place, and in itself_   
_Can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n._   


(Paradise Lost by John Milton)

**Emma:**

So much had happened since she decided to stay. Emma was on edge. Her constant run-ins with the Mayor left her rattled and not in the best of moods, so when on one morning Henry invited her for coffee she was almost ready to refuse him. But how could she now? He was the reason she had decided to stay, so any minute she got to spend with him was precious.

They met, talked nonsense, discussed the already infamous 'Operation Cobra' (with much enthusiasm on Henry's part, of course) when finally the kid casually mentioned Father Jones and dropped the biggest bombshell of the day so far.

"You didn't know that it was him who found you on the side of the road?" gasped Henry.

"N-no," stuttered Emma. Apparently both the Sheriff – that is, Graham – and Killian thought it best not to inform her of that particular fact. Suddenly, she slid out from their booth, bent down to Henry's level and said, "I have to go and thank him. Can you tell me where the church is?"

* * *

A half-hour later she was walking down a road in an unknown part of the town (she was still familiarising herself with it, after all). Her swift walking couldn't be explained by a simple urge to thank a person for saving her life; she wanted to see him, too, and rather badly, in fact. Their run-in in the diner the first time they met left her with some confusing emotions. It was time to face him and what better place to confront him (" _Really, Emma, is that what you're after?"_ she thought) – alright, to thank him, than in his "natural habitat"? She snorted at the expression. Very dignified, indeed.

Of course it had to be him that saved her – that first time she saw him she'd recognised him instantly, didn't she? Those dark blue eyes and that accent. She couldn't have dreamed up all that on her own – her dreams were never that good. Emma felt her heart flutter in her chest for a few seconds ("Stop it, you, traitor"). And then she laughed. She was literally saved by a priest. How funnier could it get?

She was breathless from her walk and almost giddy with excitement (although she would had never admitted that to herself) when she finally turned around the corner and saw it. Situated almost on the edge of the town, apart from all other buildings, with the forest behind it as its faithful protector, it's spire proudly towering above the building itself, it was a sight to behold despite its comparatively modest size. There was something Neo-Gothic about it although it did look relatively modern with walls made of red brick and an actual portal adorned with beautiful reliefs.

Emma hesitated before opening the main door, debating with herself whether it might be closed or not at this hour when it suddenly flew opened and a very flustered Killian almost run into her. Her lips formed a perfect 'O' in shock and she was sure that the expression in their eyes matched right now. Emma, at the doorsteps of an actual church. Killian, an actual priest, running out of it, like it was on fire. She almost burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all.

He was first to recover, however. "Emma?" his bewildered expression only made it all that more amusing. She fought the smile that was threatening to appear on her face.

"Why, hello,  _Father Jones_ " said she, emphasising his official name just in order to annoy him. It worked instantly, like magic. He grimaced: "I told you not to call me that. Can't you just stick to Killian?" he lowered his eyes for a moment and then looked back at her, his eyes once again dark blue and incredibly intense, as ever. "And what a lovely surprise to see you here," he added with a small smile playing on his lips. Emma felt momentarily distracted by it. She huffed, trying to get a grip on herself and decided to play along.

"Is the church on fire or something?" she asked.

"What?" the playfulness in his tone was gone. He furrowed his eyebrows, "What… what on earth are you talking about?"

"Well, you did run out of it in such a hurry - almost knocking me down in the process, might I add, too".

"Oh, that," his face brightened with understanding. "I left my notebook at my flat with all the dates and stuff. Being without it is like missing a hand," he laughed, pointing with his left ha- arm, actually – towards the direction of his (she supposed) flat. It was only then that she noticed that his left hand missed the actual…  _hand_. She stared at it in surprise and, apparently, for too long because he finally noticed her silence and glanced down at what she was looking at so intently. "Um," he started uncertainly but she didn't let him finish. Trying to be as delicate as possible, she asked, "What is wrong with your… hand?" Well, that didn't come out quite as she wanted it to but there was really no way around it.

"I don't… have it?" he answered, eyebrows quirked and it sounded almost like a question.

"I'm sorry in advance for being so insensitive, but what exactly happened that made you lose your hand?" she asked, almost fearing his response but her curiosity was too great.

"A freak accident with a chainsaw when I was younger," he replied, his jaw clenching, clearly not wanting to elaborate further. She decided to try a different tactic: "Does it bother you much?"

He looked wistful for a moment and then said, "Now? Not much. People really can get used to everything, I've found." Thinking the subject closed, he finally started his own interrogation. "So, deputy Swan, what brings  _you_  here?"

She got flustered for a moment – Emma wasn't really good at thanking people because everything she'd done in her life so far was of her own doing, the fact that she was quite proud of – but this called for some genuine expression of gratitude. She struggled to find the right words and then decided to go for the easiest ones.

"I've come to thank you for saving my life when I got into that freak car accident a few weeks back. If it hadn't been for you, God knows what would've happened to me. So yeah. Here it is. I'm… extremely grateful." Now that the hardest part was over, she could get back into her favourite interrogation mode: "Why didn't you tell me, when we first met?"

Killian was silent for a moment. "That would've sounded like bragging, wouldn't it? Besides, I didn't want you to think like you owed me anything. Nothing except Henry should have kept you in this town so I decided it was for the best." A few seconds later, he added: "Am I forgiven for withholding that sensitive bit of information?" The corners of his lips went upwards and she couldn't help but smile in return. "Definitely forgiven. Although I still owe you."

Before he could start protesting, she changed the topic of their conversation: "It's a lovely church you've got here." His face lit up at her words and she was so, so glad to see this particular expression grace his handsome face. "Would you like a tour?" he asked, eagerly.

Emma hesitated. "You know what? Maybe some other time" she smiled, trying to soften the blow. Silence was once upon them and she couldn't bear it right now.

"Why did you become a priest, Killian?" she asked softly, out of the blue.

"I…" he seemed shocked by her question and judging by his lost expression was unsuccessfully trying to find the right words to express himself. "I wouldn't want to give you all the usual clichés. I just… am. A priest. It's my true calling."

Something was off about his answer but she decided not to push it for now.

**Killian:**

Her question had caught him off-guard, so he couldn't really be held accountable for the next thing that came from his mouth:

"Would you like to have lunch with me?" Seeing her shocked expression he hastily added: "It's lunch-time already, is it not? I don't know about you but I'm simply famished. And the only way I can put some decent food in my stomach is by going to Granny's diner – you know, can't really cook with one hand and all…" he was rambling and he knew that, but he couldn't stop. She simply had to agree. Surprising him (and herself, probably) and saving him from further humiliation she put her hand on the arm of his good one in an attempt to silence him. It definitely worked because he stood frozen on the post not daring to move lest she decided to move her hand away from him. Her fingers on his clothes, so warm, inviting and not at all unwelcomed. He gulped.

"I would love to. I'm famished myself," she smiled, genuinely, and he sighed inwardly with relief, returning her smile with one of his own.

* * *

Once they were seated in their booth (Killian was already calling this booth 'theirs' in his head) and Ruby took their respective orders, before he could open his mouth and start some sort of conversation, preferably on a neutral topic that didn't involve religion or him being a priest, Emma took matters into her own hands and, as usual, went in for the kill.

"So," she started, fiddling with her napkin, "Tell me about what's it like being a priest." Her eyes were filled with mischief and he couldn't help but let out a laugh.

"Am I being interrogated?" he leaned in a little bit closer, "Am I in  _trouble_ , deputy Swan?" his eyes widened as soon as his words left his mouth – when did he become so playful? Her presence was doing things to him. Strange, inexcusable things.

Thankfully, she just laughed it off and continued:

"No, seriously. I just don't get it – the whole faith in God thing. Don't get me wrong, I'm not against it or anything, I just… Maybe I kind of lost all hope in God and everything that comes with it after being dragged through the whole foster system as a kid. He wasn't really, ahem, present. Or helping, for that matter." She finished, a bit bitterly. She tried to mask it with an air of nonchalance but nothing escaped Killian's gaze when it came to her.

"I'm truly sorry for what you had to go through as a child," he offered sincerely.

"But it's not as simple as that, this 'whole faith' thing, as you called it. In my opinion," and here he took a deep breath,"pure faith is the most courageous thing of all – if you truly believe in God, you don't expect anything in return. You don't wait for miracles to happen, you don't make all those bargains – 'Oh, I'll say a few rosaries for this request or that and everything will be alright' – you don't need proof or anything. You truly commit yourself. You give everything and expect nothing in return. This is truly believing. But," he made a helpless gesture, "not everyone thinks the way I do." He knew he had spoken with too much passion, probably scaring her for good but this topic was particularly dear to him. He might doubt his true calling but he never doubted his beliefs. Being unworthy of something and believing in something – these were very different things, in his mind.

A moment of silence passed between them and Killian started to worry that he really did say too much. Finally, she shook her head, as if coming out of a trance.

"I've never heard a Catholic priest talk like that," she mused, wonder apparent on her face.

"How many Catholic priests have you met?" he countered, smiling slightly, relieved she was still talking and not running away like he expected her to do.

"Not many, but the experience didn't leave me exactly thrilled," she shot back.

"Oh, Emma, Emma…" he couldn't help but laugh at this admission.

And there it was, a moment of silence between them. Simple, friendly silence, when they were content with just looking at each other, marveling at each other's existence and the fact that they were just sitting here, enjoying lunch, talking,  _interacting at all_. He felt so blessed. Such easy happiness was rare to come by, especially in his life.

This moment of piece was soon shattered, though, because,  _of course_ , Emma needed more answers. Inevitably, the conversation turned towards Henry and his book. This topic, Killian guessed, was a particularly sore one for her.

"Couldn't you give him some… I don't know, religious books to read – the Bible, the Gospels? Being a priest and all?"

He couldn't help but laugh at this. Oh, Emma, Emma. How little did she know about him, or Henry, for that matter. She did have her excuses, of course, being so relatively new to all this insanity, but now was really the time to set some things straight.

"I, of course, tried giving him something more… as you put it, religious to read, to show him some direction, but," and here he sighed – not sadly but as if preparing to battle with her fully for this particular case. Suddenly, he saw with unusual clarity that she needed to understand some things, not least of all – this. Straightening, with his jaw set and full of determination, he continued: "Hope can be found in the most unusual places. You cannot really judge a person by the way they find it or, most importantly, where they find it. His hope is this book. Who would want to deprive a child from the only hope they have?"

She seemed to mull over this, tapping her fingers on the table and deliberately staring into the window instead of him. After a minute, as if coming to a decision, she turned to face him and finally asked:

"Does he come to your church often?"

"Every Sunday, with his mo- with the Mayor, of course. And every now and then. But that's just mostly to talk. He's a lonely kid so he doesn't have anyone to share his beloved stories with."

"You must know that book by heart now, don't you?" she laughed, quietly. What an irresistible sound it was. Killian unconsciously leaned further, intent on catching every single note of its alluring melody. A small smile was playing on his lips. "He told me you are supposed to be the saviour of this town."  _And maybe mine as well,_  he added to himself, almost longingly.

"Shhh!" she admonished him dramatically,"Wouldn't want the whole town to know that particular secret, now, would I?" Emma countered him playfully. He saw right through her, though, as usual – this particular secret was bothering her and a lot. A saviour? She clearly didn't see herself as that. The whole idea must have seemed so preposterous to her that she brushed it off without a second thought. But it still bothered her – for whatever reason. He'd get there. His golden angel wasn't going anywhere for now and Killian was a patient man.

**Emma:**

A few days had passed and she was still thinking about her conversation with Killian. She wanted to see him again, to talk, to discuss, to debate – anything, really. So it was to her welcome surprise that one day Henry asked her if she wanted to go to the Sunday Mass with him. Emma was a little apprehensive at first – it was rather difficult to imagine herself attending a Sunday Mass or any Mass at all. But her desire to see Killian 'at work' won over. She warned Henry, though, that she would be sitting somewhere in the back – after all, he was coming to the church with Regina and she really didn't want her experience to be spoiled with any kind of encounter with that… woman.

Emma had to give herself a pep-talk before going, still. It wasn't that she was afraid or anything – it was just unsettling for her, that's all.

She was one of the last ones to arrive before the Mass began. Choosing the last pew on the right, she slid in quietly and tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.

And then it all began. Organ music thundered through the whole church with the beginning notes of a psalm.

Seeing him come out and kneel before the altar was something akin to a shock.

_"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit…"_

She wasn't really listening to the words he uttered throughout the beginning of the Mass – she just became lost in the cadence of his voice, strong and confident, and in the sight of him performing such a sacred ritual. She saw Killian she knew only from the diner become someone else right in front of her eyes – a man of God, serving his Lord and Master. Every movement, every word that flew from his mouth was filled with dignity, belief and so much reverence. Not a single lie was heard from him and she was, of course, the ultimate human lie detector. He believed in this, with his whole heart, no matter his eyes or what he said at the diner.

The smells, the lighting, the music, the singing voices filling the expanse of the church, rich and powerful in their glory – it all put her in some sort of an eerie trance. She remembered the last time she attended a Mass and it hadn't exactly gone well – she fled the building with a huff of indignation after hearing the priest utter some nonsense along the lines of 'the Church is always right', leaving her fourth (fifth?) foster parents extremely embarrassed and apologising profusely to said priest. She never set foot in a church again after that.

She felt herself falling under a spell – eyes closing, breathing slowing down – when she was abruptly pulled out of her oncoming sleep when she heard Killian –  _Father Jones_  – announce that today he was reading from the holy Gospel according to John. He then proceeded to read the story of The Samaritan woman at the well. Emma didn't pay particular attention to it for she was quite familiar with the text itself – despite telling Killian at the diner that she 'didn't get' religion or faith in God in general. She knew her Gospel, courtesy of some of the foster families she'd been with. She'd known enough to last her a lifetime (and possibly more).

She finally heard Killian tell the congregation to sit down. His sermon was beginning. Yes. That was the moment she was anxiously waiting for today. What would he have to say about this?

He started with some basic explanation of the story, describing the woman's situation and her encounter with Jesus. After a while, though, he started to dig much deeper.

"There is a quote from Dante's Inferno that is, perhaps, his most well-known: 'Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.'"

At this, Emma snorted inwardly. What is this – a priest, quoting Dante? Killian was an enigma she was a very long way from cracking. He continued, obviously unaware of what went through her head at that moment.

"It addresses specifically such sinners who cannot return because of the enormity of gruesome and appalling sins they've committed. 'Abandon all hope.' Hope is seen as the last resort – the most powerful feeling that can still drag you out of whatever gaping hole you've fallen into, however despairing you may be. Why is it always said that hope dies last? We believe in God because we hope. We hope for the better. We hope to be saved. We hope to someday enter His Kingdom of Heaven and be rewarded beyond our imagination. Yet we know it won't happen today, or tomorrow, or in decades, even. And we still hope."

And then his eyes found hers and she froze under his intense stare. It seemed like he was trying to make her listen to his words very, very carefully.

"But sometimes people get afraid of hope, wrongly presuming that it makes them weak and it isn't enough to go on with; too much of a bother. They presume themselves strong enough to get through the day or life in general just on that kind of cynicism alone, viewing the world in harsh and bleak colours only. What kind of life do you think they lead? Joyless, colourless and most of all – hopeless.

"In the Epistle to the Romans, the Apostle Paul says: "For we are saved by hope. But hope that is seen is not hope. For what a man seeth, why doth he hope for?"

"If hope were such an easy thing to believe in, would it be so cherished? In today's reading, Jesus gives the Samaritan woman the most important thing she could have asked for – hope. And it changes her life forever.

"It is so easy in this day and age to brush aside hope or simple faith, for that matter, as something that people don't have time for anymore. Yet they couldn't be more wrong."

Emma was trembling in her seat. How could he? Every sentence, every word of the sermon cut her, like a razorblade, her blood swishing loudly in her ears. Her heart bled and bled, for what defenses did she have against such things? Hope, faith – anything of that sort – had become such a foreign concept to her through the years that she was ready to crumble under the force of the storm he was so hell-bent on delivering. She inwardly cursed. The nerve of that man. Infuriating, irresistible with his words, handsome  _("Oh just admit it already, Emma, and move on,"_  she told herself) and so shockingly… understanding. She gripped her seat with such force that her knuckles went white and her fingers became numb. Emma wasn't a coward. She was not going to leave. She had to endure this.

When Killian finished, she drew a shaky breath and started to relax, little by little. Still furious with him and her nerves tingling from the amount of anxiety she had just endured – God knows – (she nervously chuckled inwardly at the thought), Emma decided to close her eyes and concentrate on breathing. Her eyes flew open when she heard a mass of people moving to the centre of the church to receive Communion. It was something else – seeing him hand Communion to the parishioners was eye-opening, indeed. It all seemed so surreal that she had to blink twice to make sure it was really happening. Why was she still surprised? For goodness sake, Emma knew who he was and what he did for a living. God that sounded crude. But still. Out of the blue, she felt an inexplicable urge to receive Communion from his own hands.  _"What was… that?"_  she thought, her eyes widening in surprise at her own treacherous thoughts.

After that particular episode Emma stood, still trembling, and quietly found her way to the exit. She'd had enough for the day.

**Killian:**

It had been a typical Sunday Mass until he rose from his knees in front of the altar and faced the congregation assembled before him, quickly scanning through every familiar face, hopelessly trying to find the only one that really mattered. He was ready to give up until his eyes finally found her, sitting almost near the exit as far away from the others as possible. She was hiding and clearly rather uncomfortable. If not for the ceremony, he would've ran right up to her, greeted her and made everything in his power to make her feel better about this whole business. But he couldn't and she was here, and he was unbelievably happy.  _She came_. He preferred to imagine she came only for his sake and not for Henry's and held on to that delusional bubble as long as possible.

Throughout the whole sermon he couldn't keep his eyes off her. Only sometimes he gave himself a break to look at his notes. He tried to tell her something with what he was preaching and prayed to God it worked. Her expression, though, disconcerted him to no end – it looked like she was ready to bolt at any given opportunity, her face betraying nothing although somehow he sensed that she was on the verge of tears.

He finished his impassioned sermon confused and a bit dazed at the same time. He felt it was one of his best, yet somehow a sense of dread was creeping in. Killian started to become anxious and that never boded well for Communion that was about to start. He went through the motions, as usual, but without the usual feelings that accompanied them – his heart was elsewhere, worrying about a certain pale angel sitting in the back pews.

Fortunately, he chose to look at her again just at the same time as she abruptly rose from her seat and left the church. His heart clenched and he felt something ripping inside, as though a knife was slowly and meticulously cutting through his insides. His body was coated with thousands layers of ice containing the raging fire that screamed for him to run after her. But he couldn't and that hurt even more.

After the Mass was finished and people had finally emptied the church, Killian went about his usual business with checking everything – the locks, the fire alarms, and the candles – before leaving for the day. He thought of going out to Granny's diner and trying to find Emma but immediately squashed the thought. She needed time. He'd done to her something today and he was sure that if he ran into her (by accident, or not) later today, he wouldn't be the least bit welcome. So Killian decided to go by the route he knew best – to the forest, to think it out.

* * *

He found himself quite deep into the woods when he discovered that he had forgotten his favourite rosary.

And then it finally hit him.

 _Hypocrite!_  The word shrieked through his head making him stumble. He fell on his knees, shaking. How could he do this to her? His words, that were supposed to let her see something, guide her towards some sort of reconciliation with herself, they hurt her. They cut her. He could still see her expression, full of pain, when she stood up and finally left the church. The memory was pure agony. He couldn't bear it. Not his blonde angel, not her, not ever…

And then the sudden anger flared up. Why couldn't she understand? Why was she so stubborn? Killian tried to rein in his outburst but it seemed everything was intent on slipping through his fingers and leave him without any kind of control over himself. He cried out.

And there it was, his inner monster, trying to get out of its carefully constructed cage.

_"You're not fit for this. You're not good enough. You're a failure and it's not what you want in life. Admit it. Admit it!"_

_"What kind of God's servant makes others suffer? Did you think yourself being above everyone else? That you could do it?"_

_Failure, failure… hypocrite, hypocrite_  – the woods echoed those words back at him through the air making them almost tangible. He was ready to lash out and break something. He kicked the nearest tree with his good hand and cried out in pain. Killian saw blood on his knuckles. Served him right, he thought, bitterly. He stood there, leaning on the tree with his forehead, panting heavily and feeling like his whole being was about to disintegrate into that than this horrible torture.

It was coming back. Since that car accident, it was only getting worse. He should have gotten used to that by now. He deserved to suffer. Especially now.


	4. Omne Initium Difficile Est

**Omne Initium Difficile Est**

_"He who sees a need and waits to be asked for help is as unkind as if he had refused it."_

(Dante Alighieri)

**Emma:**

If you had seen Deputy Swan walking around Storybrooke in the days that followed that momentous Sunday, you wouldn't have had suspected a thing. Cool, unperturbed as ever, she continued on as if nothing happened. But inside her a small oasis started to grow full of  _hopeful_ (and, in a way,  _holy_ ) water her bleak desert of desperation, usually carefully contained within her and meticulously preserved – she was so used to it, it hadn't bothered her for years, not until that godawful (and here she didn't spare him) priest started preaching and telling her,  _her,_  Emma Swan, survivor  _extraordinaire_ , what to think and what to do – the mere thought of it rattled and enraged her so much she wondered if there was something else to it. Seeds of poisonous hope started to creep through the cracks in the dry land of her desert and she hated it. At first. She raged internally for a few days, fuming and refusing to speak to anyone unless absolutely necessary, even distancing herself from Henry for a while in the process. Now that she knew where the church was, Emma even avoided the streets leading up to it and was particularly careful not to appear in Granny's diner during the lunch-hour. Was she a coward? Probably, but she didn't come here to deal with this sort shit. And damn, wasn't the whole thing pretty shitty.

She felt like a villain from some sort of Disney movie when she had to turn down Henry's invitation to the diner yesterday. A horrible, horrible villain with guilty consciousness and barely believable excuses. But Emma couldn't risk running into Father Fu- (here she had to stop that train of thought, because she wasn't that much of a villain, at least not yet)… Jones. Which, again, made her a coward. A cowardly villain – what could possibly be better than that? That might clash most uncomfortably with Henry's book, indeed. At that, she perked up a little. Yes. She needed to focus on Henry more. No more of that 'hope' crap. She's here for her son, and nothing else. She really shouldn't change anything. But then… didn't Henry change  _everything_  when he found her? Wasn't it the time for…

"Stop it, just stop!" she screamed, internally. Emma had to stop on the sidewalk for a moment to get a grip on herself. These kind of thoughts wouldn't lead her anywhere. This had to stop.

* * *

Yesterday evening Emma felt an urgent need to finally talk to someone, at least about something. She wasn't the chatty type but being confined to her own head did little good to her sanity – it was akin to ignoring a festering wound instead of treating it with outmost care. Or taking out the whole injured limb in the process, which, Emma mused, was probably even better.

Mary Margaret was in the house, trying (and failing, mostly) to wash the dishes, her mind clearly somewhere else. "Probably wandering the enchanted forest full of invisible monsters that is her relationship with David, whatever that is" thought Emma. Her willpower was being severely tested in this regard – she tried, really, really tried not say anything about the whole 'affair' – and she very much wanted to believe there wasn't much to it – but this whole… falling in love business made her quite uneasy. She was blissfully spared from thinking about it for the last few days, having been dragged under by her own urgent problems. Well, at least something good came out of that sermon, after all. Emma stifled a bitter laugh.

She cautiously approached the other woman.

"Mary Margaret?"

The school teacher almost dropped the dish she was holding in her soapy hands, breaking out of her reverie.

"Y-yes?" Mary Margaret turned to face Emma and then her eyes grew wide. "Oh my God, you're talking again".

Emma gulped guiltily. "Sorry about that. I've had, er, a lot on my mind lately. You know, Henry, the Mayor…" she rambled, painfully aware that these excuses were pretty feeble ones. She was in luck, however, because Mary Margaret decided to give her a much needed break and didn't push for explanations.

"Of course, Emma, I understand," she smiled in answer. "Oh I bet you do," thought Emma automatically but then hastily stopped from pursuing that particular train of thought further because being ungrateful was the last thing she wanted to be, especially towards Mary Margaret.

"I actually wanted to ask you something" said Emma, surprising even herself. She wanted a simple, mindless chat but here she was, talking about the last topic she would've wanted to discuss. Her mouth seemed to have a mind of its own, however.

"About Father Jones."

"Father Jones?" perked up Mary Margaret. She clearly liked the man well enough that the mere mention of his name cheered her up a bit. "Good, at the very least I'm distracting her from David," thought Emma. That made her feel less ashamed for giving into her curiosity. A little pleased with the way she turned that around, she proceeded.

"Uh, yes, about him. I met the man twice at most but I know almost close to nothing about him. He clearly plays a big role in Henry's life, so I'm rather curious to hear your opinion about him." She walked to the table, pulled out the nearest chair and sat down, preparing for a long story. "Tell me."

Mary Margaret simply nodded and took her place across the table. "Well, he's been a priest here for quite a long time. Everybody likes him, he's just… a good man, you know? Always so nice to everyone. It's very sad that he lost his left hand – makes his life a lot harder, of course."

"Of course," echoed Emma, all of a sudden feeling a bit uncomfortable the man's injury without him being present. There was another subject concerning him, however, that piqued her interest more than anything else.

"Why did he become a priest?" she finally asked the burning question.

"I… don't really know. It's just his true calling, I guess. Anyway, you should probably ask him yourself" added Mary Margaret, thoughtfully, clearly beginning to wonder herself. They stayed silent for a minute until she finally said: "The thing is, he's a wonderful priest. Really. And a very good influence on Henry, by the way, so you can stop worrying about that right now." she told Emma with a knowing mock-glare. She sighed then. "The only thing that ever worries me about him is his eyes. Have you seen them? Always so… sad. When he thinks nobody's looking, his expression gets so wistful. It breaks my heart sometimes."

Again, silence. Emma didn't really know what to say about that. Speechless? Certainly. Unexpected? Even more so. She'd seen his eyes but every time he looked at her, Emma saw nothing but… life. Maybe she and Mary Margaret saw very different men in him. Again, Killian Jones was proving to be quite an enigma.

Finally, Mary Margaret sighed, thinking the subject exhausted for the night and said: "I'm going outside for a bit. You'll be alright, won't you, Emma?"

She managed only to mutely nod at this and stare at the table instead. What a fascinating tablecloth. Cloth. Black cloth. Cassocks.

What a fascinating priest.

Emma groaned, fully aware that she now was definitely not as angry with him as she had been before. Something told her their paths were bound to cross again and at last, she felt a bit… hopeful at the thought.

She mentally shook herself.  _Hope is such a dirty word._

**Killian:**

He spent exactly three days trying to find Emma Swan and explain himself. Not that Killian went out of his way to do it (much) but he couldn't go right to the Sheriff's office and see her. What reason would he give? "I'm deeply sorry if that sermon has offended you, by the way" wouldn't cut it. This whole business seemed much more personal and at the same time he couldn't waste his whole days looking for her – for heaven's sake, he was a parish priest and had responsibilities that consumed his time good enough.

Besides, all the usual places where Killian could 'casually' bump into her, request a conversation and be done with it didn't seem to work. He didn't see her at the diner at the lunch-hour (here Killian wondered if she was eating properly because somehow, he mused, Emma didn't look the type who cooked a lot) and, much to his chagrin, he couldn't go up to Ruby the waitress (or Granny, even) and ask about her. That might seem suspicious (or not?) and Killian was so occupied with keeping up appearances these days that he couldn't risk it. But why wouldn't he ask about her? Emma was Sheriff's Deputy, maybe he ran into some trouble or something happened or…

The scenarios went on and on, spinning through his head with lightning speed, while he processed everything and looked at every single one from every possible angle, looking for loopholes and drawbacks. He was clearly making too big a fuss over it but he couldn't stop.

Killian spent these last three days battling for his own sanity. His evening walks were becoming increasingly painful with every passing day. He hadn't doubted himself so much in his whole life, probably. The monster reared its ugly head and told him everything that he had already known but made himself forget. Sometimes it sounded like a broken record that was intent on breaking Killian's own head although each time it added something new to its venomous accusations. But mostly it was about failure. Hypocrisy. His own lack of goodness.

 _"You're not fit to do God's work on this earth,"_ it hissed in his ear on Monday.

 _"It's not your place,"_ it growled in his head on Tuesday.

 _"I'm here to break you, at last and for ever and there's no force in this world to stop me from becoming your final undoing,"_ it swore on Wednesday, touching the priest's very soul.

Killian should have been glad to have such a helpful and, most of all, truthful monster in his possession.  _Others_ , well, they all lied. This one promised exactly what it would do – and Killian was quite sure it would go through with it.

He didn't regret that sermon and all those words he said. He did, regret, however, not running out after her and trying to explain everything, to the last minute detail. She was missing out on something incredibly vital in her life, Killian was certain of that. It felt as his duty, somehow, to at least tell her something about it – make her  _think_ about it. Once she started, she wouldn't be able to stop – and heavens, did he know how that worked.

He couldn't stop thinking about her. All might be lost and she would scorn his very presence but Killian needed to be beside her at least one last time, to see if what he felt was real – did she really make him feel calmer or was it his imagination? Just… one conversation. Or simply to breathe the same air for a few minutes (probably with her glaring at him the whole time but he'd take anything by this point).

And so he still hoped.

* * *

Help came in the form of his favourite protégé.

Killian was once more busy in the sacristy, tidying up, checking his notebook and rearranging his books for the umpteenth time, when Henry burst through the door without announcing his presence or even greeting the priest. He just stood there, for a minute, panting, as if he just ran a mile ('And he probably did, by the look of him' thought the priest). Killian waved his hand in greeting but didn't say anything, waiting for the boy to calm down and get down to business at last.

"You need to talk to my Mum, Father" he finally rasped.

"And hello to you too, Henry" Killian managed to say while his mind wildly tried to process this entirely unpredictable turn of events.

"Why would I need to do that?" he cleared his voice, at last.

"I think… Something happened to her on Sunday. I think she needs help. You know. Your kind of help." he finally smiled, shyly.

Killian continued to stare at him in bewilderment, still trying to make some sense of this situation.

"And why do you think something happened to her? Is she…" he gulped, "behaving strangely or…"

"She doesn't really talk to anyone, well, except for Mary Margaret yesterday, and… and… Operation Cobra needs Emma to talk at least! She even refused to go to the diner to drink hot chocolate with me. And she never, ever, does that" he blurted, his eyes starting to shine suspiciously. "And I think she might be a little cross with you. I need you to be friends again" added Henry, clearly trying to use every possible weapon in his ammunition.

The boy was looking at Killian with so much hope in his eyes, it physically hurt Killian to even think of turning him down. So he nodded, still a bit numb. Henry's whole countenance brightened instantly and he almost jumped, giddy with excitement, but, finally remembering where he was, simply grinned at the still disbelieving and, frankly, a bit lost, priest, grabbed his hand and practically dragged him out of the sacristy. Killian only stopped once to bow in front of the altar and obediently followed Henry to wherever the boy was taking him.

**Emma:**

When Emma finally relented and agreed to meet Henry at his playground castle on the beach that morning, least of all she expected to see a certain priest being almost dragged her way by his right hand by a very determined boy. Killian's face surely displayed the same amount of shock she felt and they could only nod at each other, awkwardly, when both her son and the priest stopped in front of her.

Emma looked expectantly at Henry. By the looks of it, he was gearing up for battle.

"Emma, I asked you to come here because you need to talk to Father Jones. Just… trust me on this, okay?" he implored her.

She just stood there, still a bit struck by what was happening and unsuccessfully trying to ignore the very palpable presence of a certain  _Father_ , who was clearly quite uncomfortable with the whole scenario. His eyes were mostly fixated on the ground but once in a while they darted across the faces of mother and son, trying his best to appear collected. He wasn't particularly good at this, Emma wondered with amusement.

"Uh… alright? We'll talk, if you really want that." she finally shrugged, trying to appease Henry.

"You both know this is my favourite hiding place so don't you dare argue here, okay?" Henry sternly addressed both adults. Emma was about to protest when she noticed the look Killian was giving her –  _"don't"_  – and just nodded. They both must have looked pretty silly – two grown-ups being lectured by a ten-year old. Okay, maybe she did deserve this.

"Now," continued Henry, determined as ever, "shake hands and be friends again." At the look of horror starting to spread across Emma's face, the boy stood his ground. "I need to see it!"

Killian seemed to have accepted his fate. He extended his good hand to her and finally looked into her eyes. He looked dejected and –  _impossibly_  – hopeful at once. She trembled inside. "It's just a handshake, for God's sake," she thought and bravely extended her own.

They shook hands and quickly withdrew them, as if burned.

Skin touched skin, sparks ignited in their cells, electric currents hissed through the air and something intangible formed between them. It was there to stay, whether they wanted it or not.

Emma imagined it, surely, except Killian was now looking at her with the strangest expression on his face – dazed, struck, eyes wide open and lips forming a perfect 'O'. It lasted a few mere seconds but the sight of him, so, so confusing, was seared into her memory now.  _What the hell was going on here._

He was back to his old self again, though, and was now talking to Henry and it was Emma who had to get a grip on herself. Apparently, the boy was leaving them to their own devices – to talk, in other words, just like he asked them to do. It was time to live up to that promise.

Henry said his goodbyes and left them, with a very pleased smile on his face. She couldn't help but feel the corners of her mouth lift up a little in return – anything to make her son happy, even in this – probably lost – case.

Killian cleared his throat quietly and brought her back to earth. He was still there, standing right beside her.

"Um… I…" he stumbled with his words, then took a deep breath and started over. "I know something happened on Sunday, when you came to my church. I'm very… sorry, if you heard something that disturbed you or maybe even offended you – I'm not really sure – but please," and here he closed his eyes, brow furrowed, as if it pained him to say it, "please, tell me whether I'm wrong and if I presume correctly, accept my sincerest apologies. God knows, the last thing I wanted to do was make you unhappy with something that I'd said." he breathed out. The priest clearly had taken a lot of time to think about this because she didn't expect the words that were coming from his mouth.

Emma suddenly saw everything that happened that day with searing clarity. Of course, he had no real right to lecture her or to tell her how to live her life but it was just a sermon, after all. She presumed (and probably wrongly) that it was directed at her and all at once she felt small. He had his God's Gospel to preach and here she was, thinking it was all about her. Nothing was  _ever_  about her. New place, new people, it didn't really matter. How would he have known that it would affect her so much? Nobody ever knew, even her.

Just as quickly as this realisation hit her, she made her decision at last.

"I may have reacted a bit strongly to your… words but," she took a deep breath, hoping with all her heart that she wasn't making a huge mistake, "I understand where you're coming from even though it's not something I wanted to hear. But it's your church, your sermon, and I have no right to interfere." She smiled faintly at him, at last. "So, you see, no harm done." She put her hands up as if in surrender.

Killian stared her, evident relief etched in his features at her words. But he wasn't completely reassured.

"I do hope that this unfortunate… episode won't keep you away from visiting the church again. Your presence was most welcome there, believe me. I'm sure Henry appreciated it a lot."

 _"Oh you do know how to play me, huh"_  thought Emma but didn't have the heart to get angry at him for that. He was trying to do his best, after all. Just like her.

"I will… try. I think. But not in the immediate future, so don't get your hopes up," she pointed her finger at him, making her point. He looked at it, transfixed for a moment and then looked back at her. A breathtaking smile lit up his face then.

"Whenever you are ready."

An awkward silence fell between them.

"So," he ventured, "can we be friends again?" She saw him grimace at his choice of words and laughed, deciding to spare him the humiliation.

"Of course. Let's just steer clear of some topics. Let's start with simple things." she proposed.

"Simple? Well. I can do simple, I would hope so. Just don't mention the Romans. I get pretty intense whenever that particular Epistle is brought up."

They found themselves, finally, laughing, sharing a joke, and not thinking about anything for once. Emma decided that she liked this feeling. Light and simple. Father Jones could prove to be a very agreeable distraction and maybe even an ally in her cause.

"See you at lunch tomorrow?" he asked, fidgeting a bit, still a bit uncertain.

"Sure." smiled Emma. She was looking forward to it, as much as she hated to admit that.

**Killian:**

He could breathe now. Breathe easily. She didn't turn him down, she didn't walk away, she didn't refuse to talk to him. He felt an urgent need to sing "Hallelujah!" or something along those lines, so full of happiness he was. Until he remembered their handshake. The ghost of her touch still lingered on his skin. It couldn't be ignored any longer.  _It wouldn't._  Killian stopped walking and took a few deep breaths. It was nothing. Nothing at all. Just an unusual reaction to someone new that could be explained, probably later. He certainly hoped there was an explanation for that. The things he felt in that moment for now were beyond his comprehension so he decided to abandon the subject altogether. No need to linger on such treacherous thoughts when he achieved so much today.

He wasn't scared to venture into the forest that day. He welcomed it, in fact. Joyous prayers left his lips, full of rapture and gratitude. His ' _Hail Mary's'_  never sounded so delightful, so true, so  _revolutionary_ in their power. The whole forest seemed to mirror his mood and he again, inexplicably, smelled a hint of sea in the air.

The monster was swiftly silenced because Killian's mind was too bright a place for it at the moment. He felt lightheaded. He was more than ready to tackle it. Tomorrow would be better and even brighter and with the help of a certain Miss Swan he would conquer it in time. His confidence was boundless in that moment.

Killian went to bed that day blissfully unaware as to what awaited him in his hard-earned sleep.

A dying woman in his arms and a faint whisper: " _I love you."_


	5. Sic Infit

**Sic Infit**

_"For you are my strength and my refuge; and for the sake of your name, you will lead me and nourish me."_

(Psalm 30.4)

**Killian:**

It'd been two weeks since that first nightmare woke him from his sleep, gasping, feverish and clutching his wildly hammering heart to stop it from bursting out of his chest. Each night he would wake up in the middle of the night, the image of the dying woman seared unto his eyelids and that haunting whisper repeating itself with deafening volume, as if a choir of a hundred ghosts had joined her in her last plea. He would make himself get up and kneel in front of the crucifix that hung above his bed. Killian prayed until his limbs would grow numb and his prayers wouldn't make any sense – just "Please, God, make it go away, please, dear God, make her disappear once and for all…" The holiest of fathers didn't deem it fit for the nightmare to stop, alas, so the priest endured it all, without any complaints. He only hoped that this trying ordeal would end soon.

"I love you," she whispered every night, the woman in his arms, whose face he still couldn't discern. Although he most certainly dreaded going to sleep these days, Killian couldn't help but find himself rather intrigued – who was this woman? Why, of all things, her ghostly features eluded him? Why was she haunting him, of all people?

No one had ever died in his arms before.

Thoughts of that rainy night came unbidden into his head, replaying every second of Emma's car crash with agonizing slowness, painting everything black and white, creating a feeling of gloomy foreboding. Unnaturally pale, her face came into view and Killian trembled, as if he were there again, right in that moment. No, he was wrong, wrong, wrong again – her face was deathly pale and when he held her hand, trying to check her pulse – in vain – he realised with horror that it was fading away, her heart beating slower and slower with each passing second. She was slipping from him and he couldn't do a thing to save her. Agony that ripped through his chest in that moment was indescribable.

He had never performed last rites in his life, although he certainly knew how to do that. Nobody ever died in Storybrooke, after all. Not in his time. At that precise moment he realised what could have happened that night and what didn't, and kneeled again, praising the Lord with all the strength he could muster after seeing that horrifying nightmare again.

_"Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit…"_

**Emma:**

They saw each other almost every day these past few weeks. Time seemed to flow quite peacefully, without any interruptions for now, and she was glad he was there, her personal anchor who kept her grounded and in place. They met at Granny's diner for lunch, to talk, to tentatively ask questions about each other, to avoid uncomfortable questions and, most of all, to discuss Henry. The boy himself joined them on a few occasions but when he wasn't there, his presence still lingered.

They had a booth now, solely reserved for them and them alone – Ruby made sure of that. Darling, wonderful Ruby. The lively waitress, always dressed in some skimpy skirt and what-not and certainly not the one to turn down any chance to flirt that came her way, she became rather subdued in the presence of the priest. Killian never said anything or behaved in such a way that would have made Ruby uncomfortable – he never judged anyone. Emma attributed Ruby's behaviour to his special priest skills and had a hearty laugh explaining that one to Mary Margaret in the evening of that day when she noticed it.

Killian, although always calm and thoughtful, sometimes was quite the tease. Emma once ran into the diner and, out of breath, mumbling an apology, slid into their booth. His only retort was: "Where's the fire?" Her face must have been quite red because the priest clutched his sides in a feeble attempt at trying to subdue his laughter. No amount of explaining that she was "simply late" and it was all "Graham's fault" could stop him from chuckling every now and then throughout the entirety of their lunch. Exasperated, she huffed in response every time she saw him smile at her, knowingly.

They steered clear of any religion-themed talks. She never asked about 'the Romans' and he never asked her to come to the church. It was all rather easy, once they got the hang of it – a few failed tries, a few inappropriately personal questions and uneasy coughs and they were handling the whole situation like professionals. Familiar ground was the best at this time – and neither delved further than needed.  _Personal? Oh no, we don't do personal, sorry._

And then she saw his eyes once when he thought she wasn't looking. Mary Margaret's words came to her at once, the ones she spoke that night before Emma and Killian reconciled the next day, per Henry's request.  _"The only thing that ever worries me about him is his eyes. Have you seen them?"_  At that moment, she did. She saw.  _"Always so… sad."_  The expression he wore wasn't that of profound sadness but more of a troubled nature.  _"When he thinks nobody's looking, his expression gets so wistful."_  It wasn't wistful right then but… Scared? Emma's own eyes widened in shock. She hastened to conceal it. Scared, troubled, confused and sad. That was what she saw in his eyes. _"It breaks my heart sometimes."_  It wasn't breaking hers, not for now. Instead, it made her rather insatiable curiosity (when it came to the priest) almost break through and threaten their easy camaraderie. Emma  _was_  blunt at times but her sensitivity knew no bounds when she felt that the person would mind sharing something so extremely personal. She couldn't well ask: "Hey, Killian, what's with the sad eyes, eh?" Something was bothering him and bothering enough that he, apparently, felt the need to conceal it, so she decided not to pry. Not for now, at least. When he was ready (or  _she_  felt he was ready), he would start talking. She would make sure of that.

There were no "bumpy seas" when it came to their relationship, if one could call it so. Light, calm and easy, as a beautiful sunny day in June. All the others were burdened with clouds, at best.

That wasn't something she could say about her and Graham. They didn't have a relationship per se, apart from a strictly professional one (he was her boss, after all) but that didn't mean that there wasn't something bubbling beneath the surface. Emma suppressed it the best she could and simply refused to dwell on such thoughts and Killian, bless his priestly soul, provided her with a much-needed distraction. She only happily accepted the help he, unknowingly, offered and held onto him with all her might.

**Killian:**

He was walking around Storybrooke in the evening, deeming his forest not enough for once. His nightmares plagued him as usual but that didn't mean that their intensity waned – he didn't foresee them disappearing from his sleep for quite a while. Killian needed something else. Something big to take his mind off the ghostly woman with raven hair.

He was about a half-block away from the crossroads when he saw Emma standing near the pedestrian crossing, with the Sheriff, Graham a few feet away from her. They were having a heated argument about something – he couldn't exactly decipher their words. He was about to call to her when something – almost – improbable happened: Graham swiftly closed the distance between himself and Emma and kissed her for one, again, almost impossible, moment. Their kiss ended as quickly as it started and Killian saw the Deputy push the Sheriff away, effectively breaking the kiss. Emma shortly left then while the priest stood, paralyzed and unable to move, watching her disappear behind the corner. Something twisted in his chest, for a second, and made him take a harsh and unexpectedly painful breath. Killian decided to attribute it to his morbid curiosity and averted his eyes quickly, lest the dejected Sheriff caught him watching the spectacle unfold before him, like a scene from some tragic play. He turned on his heels, trying to walk as silently as possible. He hoped his intrusion was left unnoticed.

He walked and walked until he found himself near the forest again. Recoiling from it, as if from a poisonous snake (which was definitely a first), he turned and almost dragged himself towards his flat. Sleep. Who said that sleep healed everything? His only served as a home for ghastly visions which he didn't have the stomach for. Not today, not ever.

He took a deep breath and opened the door to his flat.  _Time to face your monsters._

* * *

The next day, when Emma and Killian had their lunch together, as usual, he observed her intently, trying to come to terms with what happened yesterday. She didn't seem to be quite shaken and he didn't pry. Emma was a bit more subdued than usual, though, and he suddenly hated Graham for doing that to her. Killian quickly admonished himself for that thought, wondering, again, as to where did it come from. He turned his full attention, once more, to the blonde sitting before him and tried to make her forget all about the incident in his own, subtle way.

**Emma:**

They were back at the station, and the aftermath of the fight with Regina was making itself known. Graham was gently treating her small wound – his fingers lighting her skin aflame and his concerned gaze twisting her gut in the most wonderful of ways. All those emotions that coursed through her veins right now, along with her blood, were not unfamiliar – she wouldn't lie to herself like that – but since they'd been dormant for so many years, it took quite a bit getting used to them. Emma treaded carefully, fully aware that one false step would sent her back a hundred miles. "What would Killian say to all this?" she wondered, all of a sudden, and almost laughed at that. Oh, the sneaky priest. He was certainly worming his way into her life, which was taking quite an unusual turn today, of all days.

Emma didn't expect all of it to happen – certainly not the fight with Regina, never mind the satisfaction it brought her – but the most important things in your life always happened without you expecting them, didn't they? Only yesterday she was so angry at Graham, furious with him for being with that awful woman, for kissing her, Emma - no, scratch that, for even  _daring_  to kiss her at all. And now… she didn't even know what to think.

She wasn't in love but she was feeling again – and that was more than something, indeed. Her fortified walls, which took her years to build, shook under the pressure. Something snapped inside, when she looked at him and, in a flash, her decision was made. Her skin tingled with anticipation of what she was about to do.

Emma was sure of herself and hesitant at once – she moved slowly towards Graham, as if afraid of spooking him. Maybe it was too soon? But no, it had to happen now, she felt it – it was right, it was  _the_  moment. She closed the distance between them, slowly, tentatively, gently and then suddenly he was meeting her halfway, his right hand finding her waist – its resting place – and she felt all of her fears disappear into the void she would never have the need to look into.

She felt her lips brush his, as if in a daze, not quite comprehending what she was doing. That spark she felt earlier was back and it was coursing like lightning between them, connecting their very beings to each other. The pain in her brow was long forgotten, what happened a half-hour ago felt like an awful dream altogether. His lips moved with hers in perfect harmony, sending shock after shock of pure delight into her gut. It felt so terribly right at that moment – so right, Emma almost began to protest when Graham broke their kiss to look her in the eyes and exclaim "I remember! Thank you" with such heartfelt gratitude in his tone she felt she didn't deserve it, not at all. She was still trembling – all these new things she felt were like pure adrenaline injected into her bloodstream, straight through her heart. He remembered something vital to him, she was sure, but she didn't want to dwell too long on that thought. All those wolves paled in comparison with what was happening right here – the most real and true thing of all. Emma started to draw him closer, yet again, almost desperate to feel his lips on hers, confirming her feelings and the fact that he returned them. Telling her, in the most pleasurable, truest of ways, that what she felt wasn't a fluke or her imagination gone astray. Real, so  _exquisitely_  real.

And then he was on the floor, clutching his chest, gasping, trying in vain to fill his lungs with the last oxygen he would ever breathe in, his eyes wide, impossibly wide. She cried out and moved to prop him up, do anything, anything at all to stop this horrendous nightmare that was happening right before her eyes.

It was too late. Graham ceased to move and then he was still, on the floor, with a look of pure agony etched unto his features for ever. A frozen statue of a man cruelly ripped from the very fabric of life.

Emma slid down on the floor, gasping, choking and finally sobbing like a little child. She cried and cried until her body refused to produce any more tears leaving her taking shallow gasps instead. Her whole body shook so much, she couldn't control her own self for a while. She couldn't look at him, either, for every glance in his direction brought a new round of gasping, attempted crying and hugging herself till her sides hurt.

Still trembling, she, at last, got up and walked over to the phone, finally coming to her senses. Her hands shook so much, she only dialed the proper number on her third try.

* * *

She was sitting in a chair in the corner of the office at the Sheriff's station. People – doctors, nurses – so many! - went in and out hurriedly, politely ignoring her presence. They gave her a blanket sometime before, which she discarded after a few minutes. It now lay on the floor and the only thing she was capable of doing was to stare at it, helplessly, frozen in place, numb to everything that was happening around her.

The ambulance came a few minutes after she made her call. Dr. Whale questioned her relentlessly at first but gave up after he realised she wasn't going to say anything apart from "Yes" or "No" or simply ignore the question altogether.

"A heart attack." That explained absolutely nothing, not right now. He was kissing her one moment, so full of life, so full of hope, and the next he was falling on his knees, gasping, his very essence abandoning him like a deserted ship, leaving a shell of a man behind it.

She clutched her knees, desperately, trying to hold onto something and took a few shuddering breaths.

The pain of losing him – of losing something that could've been, too – wasn't going anywhere. It throbbed inside her, poisoning every cell on its way. She didn't think she needed treatment for that particular sort of pain – she would gladly suffer from it for as long as she should. Emma felt herself slowly falling beneath the surface, without any struggle – she welcomed it, in fact – until the face of her own child flashed before her eyes.  _Henry._  His name was like a slap in the face, violently waking her from her grief-induced dreams. She couldn't do that to him – not when she only got to knew him. Her little, innocent son. He didn't deserve any of this.

Emma had to do something and quick. She needed to talk to someone, probably, so she started making a list in her head of all possible people she could turn to. Archie? No, she barely knew the man, so he couldn't offer her anything substantial, despite his profession. Mary Margaret? Probably, but that might lead to her asking rather uncomfortable questions and Emma wasn't ready to divulge any sort of information of her relationship with Graham. She would never be ready. That lead her to her last choice – Killian. Father Jones. She couldn't have come up with someone better, truly. She almost forgot they had a priest here! But not only that, he was her… friend, or, at least, she liked to think of him in that way. He wouldn't tell her to start praying or anything – they had an agreement, after all – but he could offer her some sort of solace without asking any intrusive questions.

So, it was decided. She knew it was late but her state at that moment didn't allow such trifles to stand in her way. Emma would seek him out, right now, whether he wanted it or not. He was God's servant, therefore, he had no choice but to listen to her.

**Killian:**

The evening Mass was finally over, and Killian took a few calming breaths, trying to steady himself. One more moment and he would be on his way to the forest, finally letting his thoughts run free through his mind. Thankfully, none of the parishioners was interested in talking to him today, so Killian's wish was granted soon enough.

He entered the forest and breathed in the evening air. Unlike the other days, today it had a bitter aftertaste which made him shiver in expectation. Something sinister was happening and he could practically feel it – but then he quickly got rid of that thought, telling himself for the umpteenth time that it was his imagination and nothing else. God knew, in what state his mind had been for the last two weeks. The Lord, surely, could forgive him his little madness for now. He deserved some sort of peace.

And so peace came in the form of Emma Swan, albeit a rather conflicting one. He couldn't help but recall, again and again, every single detail of what he witnessed the day before – the suddenness of the kiss, the way she pushed Graham away, certainly, indignant, the surprising, although brief, pain he felt when he saw them kissing.

 _"You wouldn't mind feeling the softness of her lips against yours, would you?"_  the monster whispered seductively into his ear. Killian froze on the path he was taking, barely daring to breathe. Her… lips? He didn't even… He never… No, he most certainly had never thought of that. And never would. He simply couldn't allow himself thoughts such as these.

As easy as it sounded, the thought remained, hidden amongst the others and biding its time.

He couldn't let Emma – wonderful, lovely Emma, his golden angel – turn into some dark temptress that would torture him at night with her blonde locks and seductive smile. It wasn't seductive in real life, of course, but it would surely become one in his dreams. And Killian never dreamt of other women, except for that ghastly vision that haunted him at night. It wasn't exactly a tempting one, either.

His life and heart had place for only one love – God – and there couldn't be any competition. Killian finally sighed in relief, for that reminder was a rather timely one. God and no one else had a place in his heart. Not that it had been a problem before, not for many years, at least.

He once knew a woman who touched his heart in the most profoundest of ways. She was long buried in his memories for she was, herself, long gone – she left the place, left  _him_  a long time ago, not quite bothering to look back. The bitterness he felt at these memories was unexpected and very much uninvited – a man like him shouldn't feel like that. Not anymore, not for many years to come. Why was he thinking about her now? Wasn't her face supposed to be erased from his memory? She did look more than a little blurred, now that he thought about it. But her voice… it didn't go anywhere. He remembered the words she said to him, all those years ago, her voice soft, steady, firm. He shivered, involuntarily, remembering his ghost.

_"I love you."_

He wouldn't have an answer to that, not anymore, nor in this life, certainly.

* * *

Coming out of the woods, he saw a faint outline of a lone figure sitting on the steps of the church's entrance. He started to walk faster, wondering who it might be, coming up with hundred of possibilities and not allowing himself to think of the one he wanted to happen most. To his surprise, however, God (or was it the work of someone else – to tempt him more?) presented him with a little miracle – it was Emma, of all people, sitting on the stairs, her head bent and her blonde curls obscuring it. He called out to her and she raised her face to him. What he saw and what he heard next made his whole body go numb with shock.

"Graham's dead."


	6. Manibus Date Lilia Plenis

**Manibus Date Lilia Plenis**

_"This is what I shall tell my heart, and so recover hope: the favours of the Lord are not all past, his kindnesses are not exhausted."_

(The Book of Lamentations 3:17–26)

**Emma:**

Seconds disappeared. Shallow breaths were taken. Horrible truths exchanged.

She kept staring at her hands, making it his duty to fill the silence with some nonsense about life, death and acceptance. Suddenly, she couldn't take it anymore.

"Killian, stop. He just… died. How do you ever come to terms with that? It's not like you're looking at a dead person in a coffin, where death has already… happened. Where it's a fact. I saw it happen. I saw life get sucked right out of his body. It's not… I don't think…" she gulped, unable to restrain herself. A lone, scared tear slowly travelled down her left cheek. She focused on the feeling, suddenly needing to taste that salt water on her tongue to distract herself from her thoughts – anything, she would've taken anything. Taking a deep breath, she once again looked at Killian – silent, unmoving, painfully serious. She was incredibly grateful that he wasn't talking right then and at the same time – angry, so angry. Sudden rage was threatening to overtake her, without any reason, none at all – how could he appear so normal, unaffected, basically, the very same man she saw earlier that day? Wasn't his world thrown off its orbit? Didn't everything seem colder, blacker, more sinister, desolate now? She really couldn't take it anymore.

"Have you ever lost someone, huh, Killian? Has anyone been ripped from your life so casually, so cruelly? How can you – " she snapped her mouth shut, seeing his expression and finally realising how far she'd gone. He was stone-faced, still perfectly immobile and yet his eyes grew a fraction colder, effectively cutting out any warmth she was used to feeling from them. Just from being watched. Emma looked down, trying to appear as apologetic as was possible. Her fingers squeezed the edges of the chair she was sitting on, almost to the breaking point. In a moment of blind weakness she managed to inflict quite a bit of pain on one of the most kindest people she'd ever met. Funny thing, though, she thought – by hurting him, she herself hurt less. Or, at least, now she hurt for him.

"I am… s…" she finally stilled her shaking fingers, "so… sorry." Emma dared to meet his gaze, at last, and found his stance less rigid than before. He looked back at her with such an understanding expression on his face, she feared he really had her all figured out at that moment. He knew why she said those words, that much was clear and he accepted those reasons. She had never been so grateful to anyone in her life for being so intuitive. Finally, he spoke.

"I have lost someone… a long time ago. But not in the way you've had." He swallowed uncomfortably, seemingly at war with himself. All of a sudden, Emma was watching him like a hawk, her gaze following his every move and fleeting expression crossing his face. He just told her more about himself in those two sentences than in all their meetings at the diner. He was opening up, finally. Maybe with a proper nudge…

"It's different for everyone, Emma, although it hurts the same. Doesn't mean we should choose to live with it weighing upon our shoulders for the rest of our lives. We hurt, we endure, we move on. It's… only natural." He finished with a sigh and attempted to smile, clearly thinking the subject closed. A look of disappointment almost crossed her face before she swiftly smoothed it into an appropriate expression. Sympathy. Understanding. Grief.

He made her forget about her own loss with a few simple words. Now she knew what she really wanted out of this strange friendship with him.

_Tell me more about yourself._

The most dangerous cliché but the very one she found herself craving more and more with each passing second.

**Killian:**

They talked until it was well past midnight. He even held her hand for a bit, caught up in a rare moment of sincerity between them, until they both realised what was going on and she withdrew it, clearing her throat uncomfortably.

"Why do young people die?" she suddenly asked.

Taken aback by her question, albeit a very logical one, Killian stayed silent for a few minutes.

"Sometimes they deserve to be in a better place earlier than the others."

"But isn't life the most precious thing of all?" she asked again – not bitterly but… dejectedly. Without any trace of hope in her voice.

His heart clenched at the sight. Killian was about to say that life was just a step towards heaven but something told him that in her case it wouldn't suffice. He lowered his eyes on the floor, ashamed he couldn't properly console her. Face to face with such a loss and he found himself strangely inadequate. Instead, he couldn't help but be morbidly fascinated – what was it like, being there in the end? Was it peaceful, meeting your maker at last? Was it  _worth_  it?

"Sometimes life can be… too much, Emma."

She only nodded in answer.

He wanted to smooth her brow with his fingers. He wanted to hug her tight like a little child and tell her that it wasn't her fault. He wanted to stand before God and ask him to make everything right again. He wanted to move mountains if that meant her eyes would never glisten with those bitter tears and her voice would never tremble again. Hell looked inviting if it meant her life could be heaven. Why was he so protective of this golden-haired creature? A woman with steely eyes whose steady gaze unnerved him so much?

His fingers twitched at his side, impatient to touch the pale, golden silk of her curls. Shocked at this thought, he didn't see the mental slap coming from his other, priestly, self. Served him right, he thought. His hand curled in a fist, knuckles turning white from the effort. Self-control had never come it such a price before.

And she was blissfully oblivious to it all.

* * *

_"Killian, dear, look at me – ,"she couldn't properly finish her sentence, her quiet laugh dissolving into giggles. Her eyes twinkled with mirth – it seemed her greatest enjoyment these days was to tease him mercilessly on any account she could find. His pride might have been hurt if it wasn't her making fun of him. She was allowed everything and anything. Maybe even more, if he could possibly give it to her._

_"Why me?" he sometimes wondered – mostly to himself, rarely – aloud, for he was frightened it would make her reconsider her choice. He was quite positive he wouldn't be able to find someone more incredible than her. She breathed life into everything she met – most of all, him. His life was now clearly divided into two parts – life before meeting her and after. There was no in-between – one moment he was wandering aimlessly, restlessly on his lonely path and the next he was engulfed in a fiery tornado of her crackling essence. She was never still – her eyes danced even when she was silent. He was destined to fall for her. Like a moth to flame, like a deserted lamb finding a peaceful meadow, like a lonely raindrop finding its resting place in the sea. Her love swallowed him whole and breathed fire into his eyes. Nothing ever looked the same to him again for his world was reborn – startlingly, forcefully, rejoicing in its naivety. He never tasted so much hope and promise on his tongue before he tasted her._

_She was a few years older than him, a striking, raven-haired beauty. She reminded him of the sea on a deceptively clear day, right before the storm stroke. At least half the town gossiped about her at one point or another but, surprisingly, she kept to herself despite attracting so much attention (most of the time – rather unwanted but she didn't actually complain). Why ever she chose him, of all people, remained a mystery covered in hushed whispers and desperate trails of kisses down his throat._

_They met on the docks one day. He kept quiet, she said something nonsensical about the weather. He tried to appear unperturbed but she was relentless in her pursuit. A half-hour later he was joking, teasing, laughing along with her – doing everything he mostly avoided._

_Her name was Milah and she ruined his life._

**Emma:**

The day of Graham's funeral greeted her with a few measly rays of sunshine. Her consciousness allowed her a full five minutes of blissful ignorance until it hit her all over again what was about to happen in a few hours. She glared at her bedside clock, willing the time to go slower. The numbers on the screen stared back unflinchingly, refusing to back down. Emma almost growled in response. Why did the world refuse to cooperate when she needed it most? Stupid world. Stupid life. Stupid everything.

She knew she was behaving rather childishly but everyone around her wasn't really helping the matter, either. Fake cheerfulness, being scared of uttering anything that had any relation to Graham or her work, basically tiptoeing around her like she was a fragile porcelain doll who was about to break under pressure – that wasn't going to help. Of course, it wasn't their fault – Mary Margaret, Henry, Ruby – they were all trying to… help. In their own, albeit a little fucked up (from Emma's perspective, at least) way. She had never been a doll, she was made of pure iron – and if life wanted to punch her in the gut or to teach her a lesson, then life was about to be sucker punched back in return.

The only person who seemed to get it was, surprisingly, Killian. Maybe it was because he wasn't afraid to answer her questions and when he didn't have an answer, he acknowledged his own inadequacy when it came to that particularly sore subject. Death. Loss. Anything. He didn't back down. Everyone else ignored it as much as they could but he – he looked it in the eye with some sort of sick wonder. At first it hugely unnerved her but now? Now she was just grateful that he wasn't afraid. And he was… there.

"Emma, are you up?" Mary Margaret knocked on her bedroom door, jolting Emma from her thoughts in the process.

"Ahh… Yeah, yeah, I'm up. I'll be down in a minute." She promised, wanting to have these last few moments to herself.

"Okay, I'm waiting for you downstairs. We're heading out in about an hour!" and with that she left, walking away just as silently as before.

Emma stared at the ceiling, gathering her strength. Thankfully, it didn't stare back.

* * *

It seemed that every single person living in Storybrooke arrived to bid farewell to their late Sheriff with the notable exception of Mr. Gold, of course, who made it a point to never be seen inside the church. The townsfolk already regarded him as evil enough, so his avoidance of this house of God was more than understandable, at least from their point of view. Nobody really knew

That and all sorts of other certainly useful information was dutifully provided by Mary Margaret in a failed attempt to divert Emma's attention from the coffin that was currently being carried into the building itself. She couldn't stop staring at it. Graham was alive just a few days ago and now… now he was in there, dressed in a black suit, his hands folded on his chest, his face turning a sickly shade of grey, unmoving for all eternity and on his course to disappear beneath the earth's surface. Emma felt horribly sick all of a sudden, her nausea overcoming her grief for a moment, and wondered how much time she had until Father Jones started the funeral Mass. Alas, Mary Margaret was a lot more attuned to her than she thought – she felt the other woman's hand grabbing her own and squeezing it gently, as if she knew Emma was about to bolt.

"Keep breathing, Emma." whispered Mary Margaret soothingly into her ear. "Just keep breathing and you'll get through this." She was about to withdraw her hand but then thought better of it, somehow sensing that it was the only thing keeping Emma from running for the hills.

Emma, in turn, was just silently grateful.

All at once, it was finally starting. She didn't even notice when Killian –  _Father Jones_  – came out of the sacristy and started the service itself. Every word, every movement – everything was hazy for her as if it was a particularly nasty nightmare so she decided, for her own sanity, of course, to focus on the priest's somber face. Or, at least, on his head because focusing on anything was proving quite hard, especially when one tried their damndest to avoid looking at the scary black coffin standing ominously in front of the pews. It wasn't Graham anymore that was lying in there. He was long gone and the only resting place he would have right now was her memory.

Emma attempted to still her shaking hands without any success. Mary Margaret gripped her hand tighter.

Finally, she calmed down enough to actually listen to what Killian was saying. It was time for the Gospel. Everyone stood up and he began reading:

"Then when Jesus came, he found that he had lain in the grave four days already. Now Bethany was nigh unto Jerusalem, about fifteen furlongs off: And many of the Jews came to Martha and Mary, to comfort them concerning their brother. Then Martha, as soon as she heard that Jesus was coming, went and met him: but Mary sat still in the house. Then said Martha unto Jesus, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died. But I know, that even now, whatsoever thou wilt ask of God, God will give it thee. Jesus saith unto her, Thy brother shall rise again. Martha saith unto him, I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection at the last day. Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this? She saith unto him, Yea, Lord: I believe that thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the world."

His hand seemed to be shaking when he lifted the Gospel to his lips to kiss the pages and Emma doubted anyone noticed except for her. Saint Lazarus? He couldn't have chosen anything more uplifting in these circumstances. She'd decided not to listen to anything he was going to say at this service but now… Maybe something even more profound was coming.

**Killian:**

Everyone sat down and all eyes were now trained on him, expectantly. Killian stood for a minute, his gaze fixed on the handwritten pages before him, trying to work up the courage to get it all out in the open. He looked up and his eyes immediately found hers in the sea of others. Her face was carefully blank, without any expression but her eyes seemed to follow his every move. It was all for her. Now or never.

"When we were baptised in Christ Jesus we were baptised in his death; in other words, when we were baptised we went into the tomb with him and joined him in death, so that as Christ was raised from the dead by the Father's glory, we too might live a new life. If in union with Christ we have imitated his death, we shall also imitate him in his resurrection. We must realise that our former selves have been crucified with him to destroy this sinful body and to free us from the slavery of sin. When a man dies, of course, he has finished with sin. But we believe that having died with Christ we shall return to life with him: Christ, as we know, having been raised from the dead will never die again. Death has no power over him anymore."

With the official part over, Killian was about to go a lot more personal. This was the tricky part.

"Today we are mourning the passing of our very own –Sheriff Graham Humbert, whom we all loved and respected despite his relative youth. There is nothing that can justify, excuse or even soothe the pain from his passing, except the knowledge that now he is in Heaven… What we suffer in this life can never be compared to the glory that awaits us. Death, as morbid as it sounds, is the ultimate freedom – painful for all of us who have to witness it and yet embraced by those who yearn to join our Saviour in Heaven. Remember that our loss is Heaven's gain. Our Sheriff was a wonderful man and everyone who knew him was better because of it. People like him are very… rare in this world and we must be thankful that we had such an incredible person looking out for our safety. Let us honour him by remembering all the good things that he'd done for this town, for all of us. As Saint Paul said in the letter to the Romans, "let us live a new life." His suffering on this earth is now over. Let us pray his journey brought him to Heaven. We owe that to him, at least."

With his own eulogy finished, Killian stepped aside from the pulpit, allowing others, in a rather unorthodox move, to take his place and say a few words about the deceased Sheriff. Praise, words of gratitude, occasional sobs were heard from several speakers who braved to face the others. Almost half an hour passed before Killian as able to resume the Mass.

He avoided looking at her the entire time.

**Emma:**

She was standing near the side entrance to the church with Henry by her side, who was clutching her hand as if afraid she'd disappear the second he'd let go of her. Graham's death and the whole funeral business clearly affected him and a lot – whenever Emma looked at him, his face would be sad, somber… resigned. Sometimes even broken. It hurt her heart that her little son had to experience something so awful at such young an age but whether she denied it or not, this sort of thing was an inescapable part of growing up, of… life. She only hoped it wasn't as traumatic as she feared it was for him. Focusing on Henry's mental well-being was a welcome distraction for her, besides, it brought them even closer. The bond between mother and son was growing stronger by the day. She might not be his real mother yet in the fullest sense of the word but she was… trying.

They were waiting for Father Jones to thank him for the Mass. Graham was buried about an hour ago (and here Emma blocked any thoughts concerning that particular scene or else she was bound to fall into the clutches of despair that awaited her) and most people have already left, including the Mayor, who was called for some urgent business in town. Henry immediately seized this opportunity to spend some time with Emma. At this trying time he clearly preferred his birth mother to his adopted one.

They were silent but they were there for each other and it mattered the most. They would get through this, vowed Emma to herself and suddenly realised that nothing was more important at that moment than making sure her son was safe.

When Killian finally approached them, the only thing she could offer him was her most grateful smile along with a simple "thank you". He nodded in understanding and ruffled Henry's hair. They were not alone. With Killian around, they were in good hands.

It was difficult to admit to yourself that you might need to depend on someone but this particular thought was strangely comforting, so Emma decided not to push it.

**Killian:**

The day when you accidentally ran into the town's richest man and practically its owner was never a good day.

Killian was on his way to the diner – alas, to have his lunch alone because Emma had different plans – when he literally bumped into Mr. Gold coming out of a grocery store (of all stores!). The priest mumbled a hasty apology and in return was assured, in a rather haughty voice, that everything was alright. Normally they weren't on the best of terms, respectfully avoiding each other's presence, but today the pawnbroker had a different idea in mind.

"Father Jones, how is Miss Swan doing?" He asked, out of the blue.

Stunned, Killian hastened to answer:

"She's ah… she's alright, I hope, considering what happened."

"Ah, I see. You must spend a lot of time together now, with you helping her deal with this tragedy, isn't that right, Father?" There was something oily and rather shady about his whole demeanour. He was fishing for something but Killian knew him well enough not to be fooled by his seemingly innocent question.

"Pardon me, Mr. Gold, I fear I didn't catch your meaning. Are you insinuating that something inappropriate has happened between Miss Swan and me?"

"Dear Father, I wouldn't dream of even thinking that such a thing was possible. I'm merely looking out for your wellbeing. Yours, and the Sheriff herself – "

"Sheriff? Emma is not – " Killian spluttered, momentarily sidetracked.

"Well, as she was the late Sheriff's deputy, Miss Swan is more than entitled to wear the Sheriff's badge, don't you think, Father?" A lazy smile spread over Mr. Gold's face, smoothing the edges of his normally predatory appearance. Killian shuddered.

"If that what Miss Swan wants…" he trailed off, not sure how to respond to that.

"I fear Miss Swan has been rather… blinded by her grief. She is in a dire need of a proper distraction and what better to distract her than an enormous workload? Being a Sheriff is not exactly easy, even in this town." Mr. Gold had the gall to wink at Killian and he had to suppress a shudder yet again. The man was determined to see Emma as Sheriff and as soon as possible, it seemed. It was getting quite suspicious and the priest couldn't help but think that somewhere underneath the pawnbroker's concern an ugly ulterior motive of some sort was hidden. As much as being a Sheriff would help Emma 'drown her sorrows' in work, he wasn't about to lead Emma into some trap, carefully laid out by Mr. Gold himself.

He straightened and looked the richest man in town in the eye.

"Like I said, if that what Miss Swan wants." There was a hint of warning in his tone now which didn't go unnoticed by the pawnbroker by the look on his face. In a flash, the smile was gone, replaced by a very sinister expression.

"I would advise you not to let your personal feelings get in the way of what is best for the town or the deputy herself,  _Father._ " He hissed and with that turned on his heels and swiftly walked away.

Killian was left standing alone – confused, even more suspicious of the pawnbroker's motives and a bit… lost. The only thing he was sure of right now was that he would never let Emma be a victim of Mr. Gold's games. She was not a pawn and neither was he.

* * *

That conversation was not easily forgotten, though. Mr. Gold was a clever man, there had never been any doubt about that – seeds of doubt started to grow in Killian's mind. Did they really spend so much time together? They'd met a few times since the funeral at the diner, in the open, and nothing inappropriate  _ever_  had taken place. They were friends, simple friends! How dare he even think that there was something more?

She did, however, start to ask him some confusing questions ranging from "What is your favourite colour?" to "Why do you walk alone in the woods every evening?" At first he was astounded by this unexpected turn in their conversations but then… he simply decided to go along with the flow. She wasn't asking him the scariest question of them all yet and for that he was eternally grateful.

 _"But do you want it to be something more?"_  the monster quietly whispered into his ear, for once without any menace in its voice.

Killian sighed.

_Of course not._

* * *

He was holding her hand, tenderly, lovingly, like his most priceless possession. Feather light touches ghosted over her skin, his fingers stroking her knuckles, drawing countless obscure symbols on her palm; driving her mad, mad, leaning towards her ear, whispering sweet, infuriating nothings, feeling her breathing speed up, her blood pulsate wildly in the blue vein underneath the milky white surface of her graceful neck, her heart beating feverishly like a caged bird, begging to be set free  _by him_ , once and for all,  _forever_  –

_"Take me."_

Time stopped. Her words sounded like the most haunting, seductive melody he'd ever heard.

_"Ravish me."_

Bright stars exploded before his eyes, blinding him. The melody turned lethal, paralyzing his entire body.

_"Love me."_

Heaven was beckoning him, at last, to become one with the jewel of its own creation. Unable to bear it any longer, he tried to move closer, his lips breathing desire, fire and ice into her skin, ready to receive his own Holy Communion from the Gates of Heaven. He could almost taste her on his tongue…

Ashes clung to his lips and smoke filled his nostrils, choking him. Red, angry, enormous flames licked his skin, scorching his eyes and burning everything around him.

_Undone by sin. Welcomed in hell._


	7. In Inceptum Finis Est

**In Inceptum Finis Est**

_"A silly idea is current that good people do not know what temptation means. This is an obvious lie. Only those who try to resist temptation know how strong it is... A man who gives in to temptation after five minutes simply does not know what it would have been like an hour later."_

(Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis)

**Killian:**

_"Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem, Creatorem caeli et terrae,_  
 _et in Iesum Christum, Filium Eius unicum, Dominum nostrum..."_  
His fingers moved feverishly from bead to bead while he recited the prayers in hushed whisper. His knees were numb from hours of praying, his eyes closed shut, stubbornly refusing to meet the daylight around him, to bring relief from the nightmare that continued to play behind his eyelids, still as startling and horrifying as it was the first time he saw it a few hours ago.  
He was ready for her. His late night visitor, clad in a leather outfit that smelled of other lands and other centuries, her raven hair spilling around her face, which was still as maddeningly elusive to his gaze as ever, her pale hand rising to touch his left cheek, whispering her usual, but no less disturbing, "I love you". Half the time he was crudely sick of those words and bile rose to his throat in a vain attempt of getting rid of whatever they made them feel from his system. Vile, poisonous, blasphemous, ridiculous. Nobody said those words to him. Nobody dared, nobody had a reason to do so.  
A small, hesitant voice braved his inner turmoil to remind him that there was once a person who said those exact words to him on a regular basis. The voice was soon crushed into silent dust, mercilessly.  
Her fingers ghosted over his skin again.  
Each time he felt her fingers on his skin, something broke inside him. Snapped in half. Exploded into a million pieces – and each one cut into his heart like glass shards over and over again until it couldn't feel anymore. If he could see the state of the organ that provided him with blood so assiduously, he would've lost any hope that his body could go on much longer. Human heart could endure so much, after all. And his was already in a rather poor condition.  
He was wrong again.  
You see, after a while, he started to think he got used to it, as he did every night. So what happened next took him more than by surprise which is why he was. Being alert in the middle of such a dream was a contradiction in itself.

It was her golden curls that first startled him – he would recognise them anywhere. Black turned into gold - the metamorphosis was so inconspicuous that it took him awhile to notice it. His breath became shaky as her face came into view, at first - a welcome relief from his faceless ghost.  
He was at once an observer and a most willing participant - taking her hand in his, stroking it, whispering sweet nothings in her ear while his other, observing self stood listlessly in front of them both, unable to move, to breathe, to do anything to stop it. With each kiss on her neck his lips burned and his heart soared, and it wasn't long before his resolve started to crumble.  
She was right in front of him, willing, with undisguised desire in her eyes - scorching his skin whenever she looked at him. It was just a dream, he finally told himself, in a desperate attempt to save himself from his impending doom. Her gaze beckoned him to join her, to taste her heaven on his tongue, to give in, to forget himself in her arms - Angel of Sin personified.  
He fell. The priest gave in and swiftly felt the repercussions of his unfortunate decision.  
The fire felt so real he cried out in pain and promptly woke up. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa left his lips before he even had the opportunity to process what happened. He should've been terrified, running for the hills, away from this godforsaken town - anything to save the last remnants of his immortal soul that were untainted by this vision. Instead, he knelt on his knees beside his bed, transfixed, in a daze, his nose still full of her scent - pure woman, pure desire, pure ecstasy. Only then he gathered his courage to atone for his treacherous subconscious.  
He switched to Latin somewhere on his fifth rosary, thinking that concentrating on the foreign words would somehow distract him. All was in vain. All was hopeless. In the smallest, darkest, deepest corner of his soul he knew the truth – there was no going back. No amount of prayers he offered as a penance for his sinful subconscious would ever be enough to save him from what was coming.  
He didn't know that yet but he was past the point of no return. He was past it exactly the same moment when he rushed to the side of an unconscious blond woman and touched her skin. His fate was sealed. It seemed everything in him knew that, especially his elusive monster, which reveled in his suffering and grew stronger by the day.  
But the priest was too stubborn to listen to his heart and continued his hopeless prayers.  
He was making a grave mistake. God, as a rule, tended not to listen to liars. Even if they lied to themselves.

* * *

Killian spent his day as the most diligent, God-fearing priest that ever existed in human history. At least, that was something he strived for with his efforts. Every possible thought of Emma had to be caught and buried with lightning speed somewhere deep in his own forest of all things tempting, scary and inappropriate for his position. After a whole morning of avoiding the subject, exhausted from keeping himself in such straight line he succumbed to his thoughts and tried to reason with himself - he couldn't avoid Emma, he couldn't banish her from his thoughts so it was really best for everyone if he simply changed the way he thought about her. Whenever her image took form in his head, usually most proper and fully-clothed - but now, unfortunately for him, ruined forever thanks to that hellish nightmare of a sex dream - he tried to convince himself that if he could just see her again and remind himself that she was just Emma - beautiful, broken, fierce, unavailable Emma, as normal as it gets - the vision of her, seducing him so thoroughly, so skillfully would miraculously disappear. If he were to avoid her, it would be unfair to the deputy herself, in the first place, and to Henry, who would regard such distance between them as a sure sign of betrayal: he did ask them to be friends for his sake too, didn't he?  
It was decided, then. He would bury his mind's treachery as deeply as he could and continue to see Emma. She wouldn't suspect a thing - after all, Killian could be a terribly good liar when he wanted to, as had been proven time and again.  
Maybe this all would go away after awhile.  
And the lie continued.

**Emma:**

She was getting better at this whole 'handling her grief' thing. She woke up in the morning, ate her breakfast and went to work. She spent most of her time at the station, which was, in retrospect, not the smartest thing to do, since it happened right there - and yes, she even avoided the word itself, trying to distance herself from anything that had to do with the accident. A bad thing happened, a wonderful person was gone and she simply had to move on with her life. Which included getting her work done.  
Emma took positively sick pleasure in the minute details of all the paperwork she had to do. She prided herself in the knowledge that the Sheriff's station had never been run more efficiently than this past week and she had an inkling the quality of her work wouldn't lessen in any foreseeable future.  
Besides, it wasn't like she had anything better to do. The Mayor possessed quite an excellent memory and no amount of tragedy could erase their little 'incident' from her mind. Therefore, Emma now had even less opportunities to see Henry because his darling, possessive, vindictive mother was watching his every step. This rift between two women couldn't have come at a more inopportune moment - the boy was probably her best distraction at this time and yet, here she was, reduced to an obsessed workaholic, desperately trying to run from her misery. Her son, after all, was the reason she had decided not to allow herself to be swallowed by grief and now Emma was the one suffering from this injustice - but being denied his presence was a small price to pay if it meant she would be there for him whenever he needed her. Just... when?  
She had another distraction, though, or, as she liked to call it now, her personal project - extracting private information from Killian. Everything they'd been avoiding until Emma decided she needed something more from him - was it her overwhelming need of distraction or simple burning curiosity - she didn't know but her instincts told her to dig deeper to unravel the man beneath all the politeness, the proper smiles, the elusive sadness of his eyes. If anything, Emma always relied on her instincts so deeper she went.  
That's what she said, suddenly came to her mind and she actually blushed a little, admonishing herself for being so inappropriate. He was innocent, somehow out of this world with all his talks of God and faith and purity of heart. She highly doubted he ever had an inappropriate thought in his life - Emma sometimes forgot that he even had a life before becoming a priest. He just... was.  
Mentally shaking herself, Emma ordered her wandering mind to get back to work. The huge pile of papers on her desk wasn't going anywhere. So she dove back in, losing herself in the work.  
Nobody troubled her much at the station these days, so it was rather surprising to hear the front door open and close, followed by someone's footsteps. She briefly wondered who it might be.  
He was probably her last guess.

Killian's head appeared in the doorframe, followed by his right hand which made a mock "knock-knock" on the door. She offered him her brightest - and most confused - smile which he returned with his tentative one.  
"Hey." he said, looking very out of place.  
"Hi, Killian." she said back, starting to find the whole situation rather amusing. Hello, distraction. Fancy meeting you here.  
He was still standing in the doorway when she decided to take pity on him and play hostess to make him comfortable, although he looked rather adorable looking so ill at ease, if she was really honest with herself.  
Emma stood up, went to the couch and sat down, motioning to the priest to join her. He quirked an eyebrow at her but stayed silent and sat down, turning to the side so that they were looking at each other.  
"So what brings you here, Father Jones?" she asked, mockingly, still trying to come to terms that he was at her station. With her. At her work. Sitting on a couch. How terribly convenient.  
"Emma, Emma, what did I tell you about calling me by my actual name?" he shook his head at her and she let out a laugh.  
"But no, seriously, why are you here? Did something happen?" she was so preoccupied with him actually being there that she didn't even think about such a possibility. Besides, she tried to reason with herself, if there was something urgent or, God forbid, bad, he would've said so right at the start. Instead, it appeared he was having some sort of trouble with getting his words out, whatever they might be.  
Seeing her eyes widen with fear, he quickly said:  
"No, no, everything's fine... I think."  
She heaved a sigh of relief but he wasn't finished.  
"Well, not exactly everything... You see, Henry came to see me in the church earlier today-"  
"What? Henry's skipping school? He's going to get in so much trouble! Regina-"  
"Wait, wait, let me finish." Killian interrupted her tirade and mentally prepared himself for what he was about to propose.  
"You see, he's very unhappy that the Mayor's keeping you two apart. Being deprived of your company is making him downright miserable, Emma. As much as I respect the Mayor's wishes when it comes to her son, I don't agree with them. Besides, seeing him so distraught... I don't know. Something must be done."  
Emma stared at him, wordlessly, fascinated, unable to believe what she was hearing. Father Jones, a rule breaker? Well, that was a first. This man continued to surprise her at every turn and she couldn't help but like it. But helping Henry and her to see each other? That was something else, undoubtedly.  
She cocked her head to the side and smiled at him, faintly.  
"What do you have in mind?"  
"Henry could tell the Mayor that he's coming to the church to help me with some chores - he does that from time to time, so it shouldn't come as a surprise to her. It would most certainly take place after school, so stop looking so worried."  
"I'm not worried, I'm merely being attentive, Killian." she narrowed her eyes at him, daring him to contradict her. Emma was more than confident that she would win against him in a glaring match. She hoped he knew that, too. He lifted his good hand in mock surrender.  
"Okay, okay. So, when he comes to the church, you can come visit him there, too, provided you're not busy with work or anything else. That way everyone's happy - the Mayor doesn't know, you get your time with Henry and I..." he trailed off, clearly not knowing how to finish.  
"And you won't feel so alone in that huge church. No, no, don't lie," she interrupted him before he could voice his objections to her choice of words. "I know you are. That place doesn't scream "home" to me and you already spend so much time there. Wouldn't it be nice to know there's someone in the building as well, hmm, Killian?"  
He smiled at this, tentatively, lowering his eyes.  
"Hey," on an impulse, she grabbed his hand, not thinking, "we won't bother you, I swear." His hand was warm, his touch - inviting and... electric, just as it was on that day near the playground. She shivered, involuntarily, and their gazes locked. He was looking at her, strangely, as if she was someone he'd lost but now - found, inexplicably (what nonsense!). She hastily withdrew her hand. Stop this, Emma.  
However, everything went unnoticed by Killian, apparently, because, to her relief, a little smile was still playing on his lips. It was rather unnerving.  
It was time to break their trance.  
"Thank you, Killian." she said quietly. "You have no idea what this means."  
He nodded, shyly, obviously not used to such gratitude which was rather strange - he must've heard quite a bit, being a priest and all. Maybe it was his name that made all the difference.  
Thinking their conversation was over, Emma opened her mouth to offer him a cup of coffee when he suddenly said:  
"Emma, have you thought about becoming the Sheriff of this town?"  
Well. That was definitely a first.  
"W-what?" she gasped, eyes widening in horror. "Is this some kind of sick joke?" she spit incredulously, her recent gratitude suddenly forgotten. Sensing that in this state she wasn't to be trifled with, he hastily added:  
"No, no, I don't mean it like that. Please, Emma, calm down. Hear me out at least!" he added, clearly affected by her outburst. She fell silent, deciding to give him a chance.  
"Okay, okay. Please listen. You see, as you're the deputy, the job is actually yours now. Besides, there are no other candidates for it, right?" She was still silent, trying to put her name and "Sheriff" in one sentence in her head. The idea seemed absolutely preposterous.  
"Just... think about it. Graham," and here he coughed, obviously embarrassed at bringing his name up, "he wouldn't have wanted some stranger to do his job. He'd loved it. Besides, he had chosen you to be his deputy, hadn't he?" he finished, his eyes suddenly very hopeful. It was so unfair of him to look at her like that.  
She stood up from the couch to pace around the room, trying to process his words. She felt his concerned gaze follow her every move. It was a comforting feeling. Which was unexpected. Which shouldn't bother her so much. Emma, focus, girl, focus.  
"I don't know, Killian. It would feel like I'm... trespassing. Taking what's rightfully his. I don't think that's... a good idea."  
"But who else? This town needs a Sheriff, right? Besides, don't you think that as a Sheriff you will have a lot more power to yield? The Mayor will be much more inclined to listen to a Sheriff than a deputy." Finally, he took a deep breath for his biggest argument. "Don't you think that putting down roots here by becoming a Sheriff would be such a bad idea? Think of Henry, Emma. Your boy needs you. We all... need you." His passionate speech and the equally intense gaze shocked her - what was it to him if she became Storybrooke's Sheriff? It seemed his eyes pleaded with her to stay, properly, to finally move on - to do everything that she was avoiding so hard. She threw one last glance at him and turned on her heels to continue her pacing. Was it such a bad idea, after all? As a Sheriff she would have considerable influence and this position at least offered her some sort of security should she decide to go confront Regina.  
Maybe... maybe it was time to move on.  
Emma finally stopped in her tracks and turned to Killian.  
"I promise I'll think about it."  
His answering smile made her heart ache.

**Killian:**

At first it seemed like the most cowardly thing to do - an easy way out for himself. He called himself a selfish prick, an unfeeling bastard and every curse word he could think of, for which he promptly apologised to the Lord above.  
But you aren't doing it for your own sake, he reasoned. Of course, there was a small part of him that felt relieved at what he'd done - with Emma so busy with work they would probably have less opportunities to meet, as much as the thought itself pained him. Without her, what would he have to return to? He didn't have any real friends in Storybrooke, not since Mi- and here he had to stop himself, abruptly, for any thought about her was sure to bring him even more misery. Fair enough, he had lots of good acquaintances - his parishioners, for instance, but there was no one among those people who he could call his friend, with whom he could share what he was really thinking. Emma was probably the only person he could talk freely to, without being judged. There was something incredibly, blissfully liberating about being with her - and he, the weak man that he knew he always had been at his core, was getting accustomed to such indulgence.  
But no, this had to stop.  
Emma should become the Sheriff because she was simply the best person for this job. Besides, her main prerogative for staying in the town was her son - wasn't it the easiest, the best way to become a permanent fixture in Henry's life? As a Sheriff she had a fair amount of power - at least enough to comfortably face off the Mayor or even... Mr Gold. She wouldn't be a pawn in any of his games and with her as his, Killian's, ally (or so he hoped) he wouldn't be at risk to become one, too.  
The air suddenly smelled rotten. Politics.  
Had he sunk so low as to even consider it? He shuddered, repulsed with the idea. However, after Gold's not-so-subtle warning, staying away wasn't an option anymore.

* * *

Killian was once again sitting behind his table in the sacristy, finally writing down his sermon for this Sunday's Mass. The passage that he'd chosen was unexpectedly a very personal one - The Pericope Adulterae (Jesus and the woman taken in adultery). Killian couldn't help but smile bitterly at the irony of it. It was, after all, one of his possible futures. Forgiveness or not, the message of this passage rang clear - resist the temptation with everything you have. The priest was a fighter, for all his piety and quiet manner. He wouldn't go down and surrender his soul without the most ferocious fight this world had ever seen. At least, that was what he swore to himself. What was he without his vows?  
He was so preoccupied with his writing that he didn't hear the church's front door open and close, quiet footsteps making their way around the pews to his sacristy. Killian always left his door open, mostly because scarcely anyone bothered him in the morning. It was a delightful surprise, however, when he heard a shy "knock-knock" on the door. He mumbled "Yes?" without lifting his head and was greeted with a happy, yet nervous "Good morning, Father Jones!" from none other than Emma's son himself. Suddenly, the day seemed brighter and less daunting to him. Finally lifting his head, he smiled at the boy warmly.  
"Hello, Henry. What brings you here, may I ask?"  
The boy was fidgeting with the strap of his book bag, clearly nervous and too flustered to speak.  
"Why aren't you in... school, Henry?" Killian suddenly remembered that it was actually a school day so whatever made Henry to skip his lessons was very important indeed.  
Henry lowered his eyes, even more embarrassed, still refusing to speak. Killian was becoming nervous himself. He got up from his chair and approached the boy.  
"Hey. You can tell me." he smiled reassuringly, trying to hide his growing anxiety. Maybe something was wrong? Wrong with... Emma? Oh no, no, no...  
Finally, Henry dared to look him in the eyes.  
"Father Jones, you've always told me that if there's something wrong, I can come to you, right?" his voice was thin - tentative and still unsure. Killian hastened to reassure him.  
"Of course, of course, you know that. Did something happen, Henry?"  
The boy sighed, finally, as if deciding something.  
"You know how my Mom doesn't like Emma?"  
"Well, it's safe to assume it's common knowledge, yes." Killian chuckled, in spite of himself. This was serious, he reminded himself. The boy was clearly upset - he had to do something.  
"Well, it was alright for awhile but now she doesn't let me see Emma at all. She picks me up after school and brings me straight to home. She doesn't let me go anywhere! And.. and... I really miss Emma. And our Operation Cobra is at stake.. and... why..." the boy couldn't finish the sentence, looking away and lowering his gaze, trying desperately to conceal his tears. Seeing this boy, this wonderful, brave boy, who had found his real mother on his own, brought her to this town, brought... life to Killian himself - all on his own - seeing him like that was heartbreaking. Suddenly, the priest had an idea. It was time to return the favour and, finally, save someone too.  
He squatted down so that their eyes were on the same level.  
"How badly do you want to see your Mom?" asked he, perfectly aware that it wasn't polite to tease someone in such a condition. However, as he knew what was about to come, he allowed this little liberty.  
"Very... much. Why?" the boy's eyes narrowed suspiciously at him, desperately trying to conceal his enthusiasm.  
"I think I've got an idea."

* * *

Ten minutes later Killian was walking out of the church with a very happy Henry by his side. His excitement was contagious - the priest himself couldn't stop from smiling.  
They were halfway to school (for Killian insisted on bringing the boy there first, promising to talk to Emma alone afterwards) when he stopped abruptly and turned to the boy.  
"Hey, Henry, what do you think - would you want one of your mothers to be Sheriff?"  
He had to shush the boy when his squeals of joy became too loud.  
The Mayor was about to become very unhappy.

**Emma:**

Being indebted to someone was undoubtedly a most foreign feeling for Emma but she tried to soothe her conscience with one simple explanation - "Killian." She could be indebted to him, she reasoned, as he was a priest and such a good one at that: surely, he would never take advantage of her gratitude. Nevertheless, she felt something shift in their peculiar relationship, especially after his impromptu talk at the station.  
He was a catalyst for so many changes in her life right now - including his latest idea, her becoming the Sheriff. At first it seemed laughable, blasphemous even but now, the more she thought about it, the more she agreed with his reasoning. She was here for the long haul and the position couldn't have been any more perfect, although the whole idea still amused her when she remembered her colourful past. But past was called 'past' for a reason - everything and everyone moved on and she was no exception to that rule. She was not that special.  
Meeting with Henry at the church was definitely something new, though. At first it was rather unsettling to spend so much time in a church, without anyone there, too (except, of course, for Killian who kindly retreated to the sanctuary of the sacristy to give them their privacy). Day after day, however, the semi-darkness, the pews, the smell of the church itself - it all become more familiar to her, to the point where Emma started to feel so comfortable there, she started to call it her own "sanctuary". It was peaceful, quiet and let her spend her time with Henry however they both liked. Of course, they both longed for the outside but for now that was the best they could do. It wasn't their place to complain.  
And she was happier now.

* * *

 _12.50._  
She just spent almost 30 minutes waiting for Killian to show up for their lunch 'meeting' and now she was getting anxious. Annoyed. Nervous. He was never late - it was she who came 5 minutes, 10 minutes late, apologising profusely with him brushing her tardiness away with a ready little smile playing on his lips. But today, he wasn't here.  
Emma finished her cocoa, looked at the clock again and pondered over her predicament. Be late for work or go look for the priest to give him a piece of her mind?  
It took her a whole two minutes to decide.  
Something was... wrong. And it scared her.

**Killian:**

He was kneeling before the altar, praying, as he always did before starting his work in the sacristy. It was taking a lot longer than usual, though, for Killian kept being distracted by unbidden thoughts about this... or that. ("This" being his impending meeting with Emma in the diner and "that" being his usual nightmares.) He longed to get out of the building, to go outside, into the forest and lose himself a little. Let his mind free from all the restraints he continuously put it in, shatter the cage of his obedience and try to smell the sea... again.  
He groaned. Daydreaming whilst praying. Oh, how low he'd fallen. At least he wasn't dreaming about... No, no, no, Killian, stop right there, we had an agreement, hadn't we? Don't let yourself go there, no, stop remind yourself how the silk of her hair felt under your hands, how she sighed in anticipation, then, pleasure, how her lips formed the most perfect 'O' when you stroke her... ah... waist, hands, anything, no, Killian, she didn't do that in your dream - stop before it's too late...  
But the pleas of his reasonable self were lost on him, for now, for somehow his mind decided it couldn't take such torture for much longer and was starting to make him pay for his arrogance. You can't hide something like this and think it gone forever. You stupid fool.  
He didn't know how many minutes he knelt there, in a daze, eyes closed, lips trembling, trying to form prayers - anything to make it go away.  
The smell of smoke that burnt his nostrils was a welcome relief and for once Killian was glad that this dream was ending as a nightmare. But there were no ashes on his tongue. No fire licked his skin.  
It was... real.  
Finally coming to his senses, Killian jumped on his feet and looked around, frantically.  
Fire was raging in the south transept.


End file.
